


Strange Magic

by Vanimelda4



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Magical Realism, Rated Mature for Later Chapters, Romance, Victorian, Work In Progress, relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-27
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-03-10 06:07:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 52,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13496366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vanimelda4/pseuds/Vanimelda4
Summary: Set in an alternate universe resembling Victorian England. After John Watson has to leave the army after sustaining an injury during battle he temporarily loses his purpose in life. He spends over a year living mostly off the odd job he can find here and there. That is, until he meets an old friend who sets him up with a job as a stablehand at Holmes Manor. A place shrouded in rumors and mystery. Especially where its lord and master Sherlock Holmes is concerned. What secrets is he hiding? Where does he disappear to for months on end and what role will John play in unraveling it all?





	1. Holmes Manor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After what feels like a lifetime as a soldier John Watson is suddenly forced to seek employment elswhere. He eventually finds his way to the Holmes estate to start work as a stable hand. But why is the master of the house never there and what secrets is he hiding?

For one of the first times in his life John Watson was hesitant.

He'd been standing at the servants entrance of the gigantic mansion for at least five minutes. His short blond hair slightly messed up by the wind, his short but sturdy frame wrapped in his old army uniform and his duffel with literally all of his possessions slung over his shoulder. He was supposed to ring the big bronze bell at the right hand side of the door, wait for someone to open and start his new job here working the stables. A new start to his life. A turning point really. At just 27....

He sighed.  
Up until very recently he had been a soldier. That's all he'd ever been really. His service in his majesties armed forces had started when he was just 15. The army had taught him everything. Had practically raised him when his own family fell apart. He had been a soldier first, “John” second. And now that he was only the latter he felt as if that was not quite enough. As if a piece of his identity was missing and he had nothing to replace it with. He didn't know how to be _just John_. He wasn't even sure who that was. And now, here at the cusp of a new life, all the painful memories of an old one came flooding back to him.

John shut his eyes tightly. Why were these memories returning to him now....He shuddered as a cold breeze got under the collar of his coat. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.  
'Goddammit' He muttered under his breath. Not necessarily because of the cold. Although he told himself that that was all it was. Just the cold. No frustration at his current position. No sadness. Soldiers did not get sad. No fear. Definitely no fear for members of her majesties armed forces. Just the cold of an early September morning.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other while hoisting his duffel a bit higher up on his right shoulder. His left shoulder ached. As if to remind him why he was here. An enemy blade had pierced his left shoulder from behind. It had sliced his body in all the wrong ways. Tendons had been cut, vessels nicked, muscles irreparably damaged. He'd been a bloody mess. In every sense of the word. He'd been in the field hospital for weeks. Barely made it out alive really. Memories of that period were blurry at best. Some members of his regiment visited. Most didn't. Only James had been a constant by his side. It took a while for his vision to return, but his first memories after regaining consciousness were of a soft hand on his and a voice pleading him not to die.  
James' hand. James' voice.   
Guiding him back to shore through a sea of pain and fear.

John had known then.

He had been in love with James. From the moment he had met him really. James had been a soft spoken man. Quick to smile. Always so worried about John. In the beginning John had chalked it up to the age difference between them. James being about 10 years his superior, but now, looking back on it, he wasn't so sure anymore. There had been touches and lingering looks. A lot of time wasted. No point in dwelling on it now. James had gone missing in action just a week before John had been released from the hospital although John didn't find out until much later. He had been forced to leave the army after that. Turns out they had no use for a soldier with a tremor in his sword-hand and an unexplainable limp that came and went at the most inopportune moments. After that John had been roaming the countryside. Looking for the odd job. Unable to go home...

He closed his eyes again. No. He did not wish his thoughts to go there. Not now. Another cold gust of wind hit him and he turned his face into it until his eyes started to water.

It had been a chance meeting with an old friend that saved him from ending up homeless and destitute for the rest of his life. He had ran into Mike Stamford in a tavern close to London. John was there tending the stables for a short period of time for far too little money. He took what he could get after the army. And he liked horses. They tended not to judge.

'John? John Watson?' Mike had said, 'It is you!'  
Mike had not changed a whole lot. They'd grown up together in the same small country town, but with Mike's father being a banker Mike had always been destined for bigger things. He was dressed up like a proper banker now. A proper wool suit. All the rage in London these days. His hat was in his hands and he was twisting it around nervously. Probably taken aback a bit by the state John was in. He hadn't been able to properly wash for days and new clothes were hard to come by.

But Mike had been the same old Mike he'd known all those years before. Be it a bit bigger.  
'I got fat', he said and chuckled.  
Hearing about Johns unfortunate accident and departure from the army Mike had shown himself to be a friend through and through and had helped John get a paid position at the Holmes estate.  
'They've been looking to hire for quite a while now, but they can't seem to get anyone to stay', Mike had said. 'So they might be just desperate enough to hire me?' John had replied. Only a tiny bit bitter.  
'I didn't mean...'  
'It's fine. '  
'I'm only trying to help you John. Meeting you here...like this.....I'm sure your father would not have....'  
'It's fine', John had said once again and followed it up with a tight, only slightly forced smile. That seemed to have been all the reassurance Mike needed.  
'Write to me when you get there', he had said.  
'I will', John had lied. They had hugged and said their farewells and now John was here. At the Holmes estate. Once again he sighed and stretched out his hand towards the bell.

Not long after ringing the bell the door was opened by a small elderly woman. She had a fragile frame, but somehow held herself with an authoritarian air. Her gray hair was gathered in a tight bun at the top of her head and she wore a dark dress and a pristine white apron. A small smile lay on her lips. John fumbled in his pockets for the letter of recommendation Mike had given him so the household could make sure he was who he said he was, but the woman seemed to be one step ahead of him already. 'You must be John Watson', she said in a jovial tone.  
'I...er....yes...' John stammered, 'how did you...?'  
'My name is Mrs. Hudson and I am head of housekeeping here. It is my job to know everything that goes on'. She winked at him. John gave her a small smile that did not quite reach his eyes.  
'We were expecting you today', Mrs. Hudson continued, 'Mister Stamford wrote a very long letter of recommendation introducing you. We're all very glad you're here. Come in, come in!'  
She gestured excitedly towards the hallway beyond the open door. John followed her inside. His earlier hesitation temporarily driven away by Mrs. Hudsons cheery nature. Good old Mike. It seemed he had taken every precaution to make sure John was well received here.

He followed Mrs. Hudson down a hallway into the staff kitchen. Nobody was working there at the moment. A door in the back led to a small room that served as an office and belonged to her. There was a desk in there and two chairs. One on either side of the desk. A small window in one of the walls made sure that at least some light filtered into the small room. Although not much. Mrs. Hudson sat down behind the desk and gestured for John to sit on the only remaining chair. Gingerly he dropped his duffel to the ground, painfully aware of the mud stains it had gotten covered in during his time as a drifter and sat down himself on the chair opposite.

'Tea?', Mrs. Hudson asked cheerily.  
'If it's not too much trouble'.  
'Of course not!' Mrs. Hudson smiled, 'you must be tired having traveled such a long way.'

The next few minutes she busied herself making tea with a small set she kept in her room. The tea smelled good. It tasted good. John had been on the road for over a year now and something warm to drink tended to be hard to come by. He folded both his hands around the cup and felt his shoulder loosen up a bit as the warmth spread up his arm.

'Good, huh?' Mrs. Hudson was still smiling. John nodded and smiled back. In earnest this time.  
'Mr. Stamford writes you have experience with horses, is that right?'. Mrs Hudson asked.  
'Yes, mum. When I was in the army I did all kinds of chores. Tending the horses was one of them'. John felt it was best not to go too deep in to his army experiences at this point.  
He liked Mrs. Hudson but he was not ready to open old wounds so early in their acquaintance.

Mrs. Hudsons smile widened. Apparently that was all the information she needed.  
'Splendid!' she said clenching her hands together in front of her chest, 'you are just what we need. It's been hard to come by staff in these parts. And we've been looking for a full time stableman for ages.'   
She flashed him a knowing smile. 

Holmes manor was a large estate, but it's location was indeed a bit off the beaten track. The nearest town was about half a days walk away. But John knew that was not the reason they could not secure staff for too long. He'd heard the rumors.  
Everybody had.  
Even Mike had told him about them.  
He reckoned this was what Mrs. Hudsons remark and knowing smile hinted at. But if he was completely honest with himself he didn't really care too much about them.   
This last year he had learned that people who barely knew you tended to have a habit to make up all sorts of stories about you if how you looked or acted was a bit out of the ordinary. He'd had his fill of rumors, thank you very much. And he tended not to listen to them. Mike had told him all about Holmes Manor and it's inhabitants though and he did remember the bulk of the story.

The house used to be owned by Holmes senior. A distinguished gentleman, loved by the community. With his wife he'd had two sons, but shortly after the birth of the second boy the wife had died.  
After a couple of years Holmes had remarried with a widow with two children of her own.   
Two daughters.  
She had been labeled “new money” by those who liked to speak ill of her. Not born into nobility, but married into it.

John had stopped listening to Mike for a large part of the story there only to pick it up again when Mike told him that a few years into the marriage Mr. Holmes senior just up and vanished.  
One morning he left the house and was never seen again.  
Of course there were rumors about these strange circumstances too.

Especially when the oldest son vanished in a similar fashion.

Mrs. Holmes was the talk of the town.  
Literally everybody seemed to think she had murdered Holmes and his oldest heir in order to seize control over the estate. But with no proof to back up this theory the stories soon quieted down and the youngest Holmes son, named Sherlock, was forced to take control of the estate at just 19 years of age.

Rather reluctantly it seemed.

From that point on he started disappearing for days on ends. Going out pretty much every night and returning drunk or having clearly been in a fight, or both.  
Apparently Sherlock Holmes was growing up to be the polar opposite of his father.  
Rude, abrasive, irresponsible and, when he was actually home at the estate, the reason why they could not seem to be able to keep any staff members for long.

Sherlock Holmes usually ended up firing them over the smallest things. Losing his temper. Or people just handed in their own resignations, because they couldn't handle working for him anymore.

That had been 10 years ago. But Sherlock Holmes had apparently only gotten worse with age. At 29 now his reputation was ruined and his stepmother was doing all she could do to stay in the good graces of the nobility of the surrounding areas.

John had just shrugged after Mike had finished his story.  
'I tend not give rumors too much weight',John had said, 'I'd rather find out if things are true for myself. Besides. I've been in the army. I think I can handle some rude posh git.'  
They both had laughed at that and Mike had given him a slap on the back. John had tried not to wince as his injured shoulder stung in protest.

Besides, if a sweet woman like Mrs. Hudson worked for Holmes, how bad could it be? 'I'm sure I'll feel right at home here, Mrs. Hudson' John told her. The smile she returned that remark with practically lit up the room and for a moment John actually almost believed what he'd just said.

The rest of the day was spent getting acquainted with the house and his duties. He had been hired as a full time stableman. His job consisted out of taking care of the horses, the stable complex, the carriages that belonged to the family and also helping out in the vast gardens and orchards if the need was there. 

He had a small room above the stables to himself and John was actually pretty pleased about this. However small it was and however old the straw mattress he was supposed to sleep on looked it had been ages since he'd had an actual room to himself.

He met a couple of the other members of the household. They all seemed kind enough upon first meeting, but it would take some time to really get to know everyone. Of course he didn't meet any of the nobility that lived in the house. As a mere stablehand contact with the upper class would be limited at best and from what he heard from a couple of maids at his first staff dinner in the kitchen that evening Sherlock Holmes wasn't even home. Hadn't been for over a month now. Nobody seemed particularly worried by this.  
'He'll turn up. He always does. Though I wouldn't mind if he stayed away for at least a month more', a kitchen maid named Mary whispered to him before she got shushed by Mrs. Hudson.

That night John went to bed early. He was tired from a long trip and he had his work cut out for him tomorrow. Besides, he wasn't one for socializing these days. He only realized how tired he actually was when he laid himself down on his mattress. His leg was aching, he was hoping he would not be limping in the morning, that would be an awful first impression on his first day of actual work. He needed this job. He needed a steady, normal life. He craved it. He had had enough of adventure and danger and death these past couple of years. At least, that's what he told himself anyway. As soon as he closed his eyes a restless sleep took him. Nothing new there. Ever since he left the army he'd been having the same nightmare at least once a week. He almost welcomed it like an old friend as it was forming in his minds eye now. In his dream he was standing in a field beneath a completely black sky. No clouds. No sun. No moon. Just black. All of a sudden panic overtook him and he started screaming, but there was no sound in this place. Only blackness and his desperate screams turned into blackness themselves. Black birds that flew out of his mouth and surrounded him until he couldn't see or feel anything but their black wings beating his face and shoulders. And yet he could not stop screaming until there was nothing but darkness and the screams-turned-birds started tearing him apart as their wings turned into razor-sharp blades. Usually this was the point where John would wake himself up screaming, bathed in sweat. He was just relieved to find that this time there was no one there to hear him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had this story idea in my head for ages so I decided to finally write it down. Just to get it out of there and free some space in my mind palace and see if it'll pique anyone else's interest too. If I can get it right it'll turn out to be a mix between Jane Austen, Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell and maybe a hint of Dark Souls and Stardust. (all works that are vastly superiour to mine) IF you're reading this and think 'Mmmm, that doesn't sound half bad' stick around for chapters to come!  
> On that note: in chapters to come: intrigue, magic, mystery, romance and later on smut. But all done in good taste, of course.  
> I'm just hoping people will at least enjoy my endeavors in the world of writing a little bit.  
> In the next chapter: we meet Sherlock. And when I say we, I also mean John.


	2. The Illusive Master Holmes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes makes an appearance John won't soon forget.

Thankfully when John woke up early the next morning his leg wasn't giving him too much trouble and the pain in his shoulder was bearable.  
A very good thing indeed, because he quickly found out there was a lot of work to be done and in the end it took him weeks to get everything back in working order again. The previous person who had looked after the stable complex was an elderly man named Gregson. An old relic left over from the time Holmes senior had still been around. Or at least, that's how Mary told it. He had been Holmes seniors personal butler, but after his lordships disappearance and soon after that the disappearance of his eldest son he had been demoted to grounds keeper and sort of all around man. Picking up chores that no one else had the time or the proper knowledge for. As time passed he had actually grown a bit too old for the workload that was expected of him, but they kept him on anyway. Mary jokingly told him during dinner once that the only reason young Master Holmes hadn't driven Gregson off yet was probably because it would be quicker and easier just to wait for him to die of old age. John felt this was a rather cruel joke to make. He liked Gregson. The old man mostly took to himself. Something he could sympathize with. And the lot he had been dealt in life, however unfair, was completely beyond his control. Once again, John could relate. He laughed at the joke anyway. Mostly because it was hard not to with Mary's open, expecting face beaming at him and her hand firmly on his arm as she was seated next to him. When John wasn't hard at work Mary was the other household member he spent the most time with. He liked her. Her pretty blond curls and open face with every emotion written on it like a book made for pleasant, uncomplicated company. It seemed Mary liked his companionship in return. Every time the staff was gathered for dinner in the kitchen she would choose the seat beside him and whenever she had a moment to herself she would seek him out for a friendly chat or to bring him some food or tea. 

There were not a whole lot of household members for the size of the estate. Again, according to Mary, Holmes junior was mostly to blame for this. John just shrugged. He wasn't really interested in gossip. However much Mary liked it. There was Mrs. Hudson, who was head of the household and did a lot of the cooking. Two maids to help her in the kitchen, another handful of maids to help around the rooms and wait on Mrs. Holmes and her two daughters, Gregson and of course himself. So as far as young men were concerned John was pretty much on his own and the younger maids would tend to giggle when he was around and flirt unapologetically. John pretended not to notice. He'd had his fair share of women in the army. It had even earned him quite the reputation. But he was trying to put that part of his life behind him. He was here to make a fresh start. When he had been forced to leave the army more than his body had been wounded. His mind and soul had also taken some deep cuts. The loss of James still weighed on him heavily and the thought of letting love back into his life scared him more than we was willing to admit. 

So John just stayed on friendly terms with most of the household staff and he even met Mrs. Holmes and her daughters on the odd occasion they needed a carriage provided for them for a trip into the neighboring town or to visit friends.  
They treated him as John expected they would. As if he was part of the stable interior and on some occasions, if he was lucky, as if he wasn't there at all.  
No sign of the elusive Sherlock Holmes though. Against his nature he was starting to become a little bit curious about the man at least and one late afternoon as September had rolled into November and the nights were starting to come on faster day by day carrying a hint of the chill of winter with them he had asked Mary about him again.  
'Does Master Holmes usually stay away for this long?' he had asked her as they were sitting side by side in the stable doors watching the sun go down. Their legs covered by a thick blanket. A cup of tea in their hands.  
'Even longer, if we're lucky', she had replied and laughed her hearty laugh that John was starting to know very well.  
'You really don't like him do you?' he had asked smiling softly.  
'He scares me. You'll know why if you ever have the misfortune of meeting him.' her face had turned serious again. Her smile all but disappeared in the twilight sky around them as the shadows of oncoming winter were cast on her face .  
'He scares you, how?'  
'I don't know', she sighed, mildly annoyed now as she stared down into her tea 'must we talk about this?'  
John was about to say something, but she continued of her own accord keeping her face fixed on her tea, not meeting his eyes.  
'He's a dark sort of fellow. Not just in looks, but in the way he carries himself as well. I always feel there's something untrustworthy about him. Hidden just beneath the surface. He's hiding something. And when he looks at you...',she shuddered and this time turned her face to John again, 'as if he's trying to read all your secrets laid bare on your face. And succeeding. The things that man knows about you. It's unnatural. The things he's said to me.... I'm sure in another life he would have been a great pirate', she laughed again, a nervous edge to the sound this time. An effort to try and make light of the situation. Turn it into a joke.  
John smiled as the beginning evening darkened further around them. Deepening shadows and playing tricks on the imagination.  
'I'll be extra careful to avoid him then', John replied and bumped her shoulder with his.  
Mary smiled again and laid her head gently on his shoulder.  
'Yeah', she said, 'you do that'.

As it turned out it would take another three weeks before John finally met Master Holmes in person, but it was to be a meeting he would not forget for as long as he lived. 

As the weeks passed, trading one day in for another, December slowly rolled around. Bringing with it heavy, icy rainfall and thunderstorms. On one particularly stormy and dreary day the heavy weather lasted well into the night and John had trouble sleeping as strong winds assaulted the barn where his room was. Cold gusts of wind slipping in between the cracks, rattling the woodwork and spooking the horses. Not even his familiar nightmare would come and he started to imagine that he was hearing all kinds of strange noises in the howling wind. Until he actually did.  
The sound of the barn doors slamming open had John sitting upright in his bed. He was sure he'd properly secured and locked those doors....hadn't he?  
With shaking hands, both from cold and just a hint of fear, he quickly put on some clothes and made his way down the small set of stairs that led from his room to the front of the barn area where the main doors were.  
They were blown wide open. But not by the wind it seemed.  
Standing in the doorway, silhouetted by the frame of the doors and the cold winter night sky behind it was a black horse drenched in sweat. Nostrils flaring. Hooves covered in mud and dirt. It was clear this horse had ran a long distance at high speed. On its back was the figure of a man. A black cloak on his shoulders with the hood drawn over his face. He was swaying back and forth precariously. About ready to fall off it seemed.  
'Sir?' John hazarded.  
Two piercing eyes lit up like stars as the man cast his face on him and tried to focus. The sight was menacing to say the least. The mans dark atire and horse made it seem as though a piece of the night sky itself had taken the shape of a horse and rider with two eyes like stars as the only source of light. The figure was about to speak, but just at that moment he lost his balance and slid sideways from his horse. Only because his leg was not acting up that day and the army had given him quick reflexes was John able to catch him before he hit the ground.  
'Sir?', John hazarded again. Groaning a bit under the weight. 'Are you alright.'  
'Mmm, alright', the man slurred. His was voice dark and deep as the storm that was still brewing outside. It clearly took him quite some effort to speak.  
'Do you need a doctor, sir?' John asked.  
'Nah, need sleep', the man replied.  
It was then that John noticed the crests on the mans coat, cloak and indeed also on the bridle and saddle of the horse. The crest of the Holmes family. This could only mean one thing....  
'Master Holmes?' he asked, getting rather nervous now. The mans arm still slung around his shoulder. Johns arm around his waist, supporting his weight.  
It was then that the man cast his eyes on John once again and really looked at him.  
Piercing blue eyes framed by black curls dripping with rainwater that poked out from under his hood in odd angles. The man frowned.  
'Yes', he said in a tone far too haughty for the position they were in, 'and who the hell are you?'  
John felt this would be a proper time to stop gripping the lord and master of the entire estate quite so tightly and he managed to maneuver him to an old wooden chair in the corner and sat him down on it.  
'There you go, sir', he groaned, 'my name is John Watson. I'm the new stableman. I was hired in your lordships absence....sir', he added.  
Master Holmes looked at him once again. Slumping in his chair in a way that was as far from lordlike as John could possibly imagine. His gaze lingered on John for quite some time. Taking him in from head to toe. It made John very uncomfortable and he was reminded of Mary's words.  
Finally master Holmes spoke, 'of course you are', he said with a short nod of his head. As if that settled it.  
John wasn't really sure what to do now. Was he supposed to leave master Holmes here, get someone from the household, escort him in the house himself....he wasn't sure if any more touching was appropriate at this point. He was pondering over the possibilities in his head when suddenly he noticed the blood. Dripping from underneath master Holmes sleeve from his fingers to the barn floor. There was quite a lot of it.  
'Oh god', he muttered, 'Sir?'  
A set of piercing blue eyes was once again directed at him.  
'You're bleeding sir', John said. Somehow it came out more as a question than a statement.  
Master Holmes looked down at his dripping fingers and lifted his hand to his face.  
'So I am', he said and attempted to smile, 'maybe I do need a doctor'. It was then that he lost consciousness.  
John swore under his breath.  
Quickly he knelt next to the chair. Thank god Holmes was still breathing. Gingerly he tried rousing Holmes again, but he only regained semi-consciousness.  
At least that settled what he had to now. He had to find out where Holmes was bleeding and stop it before he bled to death right here on the barn floor.  
'I'm sorry sir, but I'm going to have to take of your cloak', John said, but it appeared Holmes wasn't really hearing anything he said anymore.  
Carefully John pushed back the hood from Holmes' face, undid the straps that secured the cloak around his neck and let it fall to the floor.  
To his horror he found that the shirt and coat Master Holmes was wearing underneath were completely drenched in blood.  
'I'm going to have to take these off as well', John said. More to himself than to anyone else. At this point he was fairly sure Master Holmes wasn't hearing a word he said as he slipped in and out of consciousness.  
As he carefully removed the clothing from Holmes upper body an unexpectedly muscular chest was laid bare before him. Underneath the blood his Masters skin appeared smooth and incredibly pale. John quickly scanned him for wounds. On his chest, back, arms, face and head, but all he could find were some superficial scratches. Nothing to explain the vast amount of blood covering his body.  
He briefly contemplated it being the horse's blood instead, but the horse seemed to be perfectly fine. It had stopped breathing quite so heavily and was starting to make an attempt at eating some of the straw that was scattered on the barn floor. A task made slightly more difficult by the bridle still in its mouth.  
Outside the storm still howled on.  
'This isn't your blood, is it', John said. More to himself than anyone else. So he was rather startled when he actually received an answer.  
'Sound observation', Holmes slurred.  
'I'm going to clean you up a bit sir and then put you to bed' John cringed at how that sounded, but Holmes was slipping out of consciousness again. Probably more related to fatigue than any mortal wounds John concluded and sighed in relief. Master Holmes would probably not die tonight. In a barn. Covered in blood. On Johns doorstep.  
The first thing he did then was close and secure the barn doors to keep the wintery cold out once again. After that he retrieved a pitcher of water from his room and some pieces of cloth and set to work.  
As the blood was starting to wash off of him and Holmes was out cold, oblivious to the world around him, John had a chance to actually look at him. He had a strange face. Not wholly unattractive (John stopped his mind right there before it could delve any further in the dangerous territory that was the attractiveness of Master Holmes) but slightly odd all the same. His face was slightly long with a nose that had just the slightest of angles in it. His eyes seemed to change color every time Master Holmes temporarily regained semi-consciousness and opened them. The colors John saw there ranged from sea blue, to green to a much darker blue and speckled through his irises were flecks that seemed to consist purely out of light. He was mesmerized.  
And then there were his lips. Full lips shaped into a lovely Cupid's bow, slightly parted as Holmes breathed calmly through them. He appeared to be fast asleep now. He had an elegant but otherworldly fairy-like grace to his features. The effect only slightly ruined by the unkempt mop of dark curls that grew on top of his head and framed his face.  
John tried to get most of the blood out of Master Holmes hair, but he soon concluded this was a task that had to wait for the morning. When there was a little bit more light and he wasn't quite so tired.  
Now that Holmes was somewhat clean and not in any mortal danger John pondered what to do with him. Without help from Holmes himself he would never be able to bring his lordship all the way to his own chambers in the mansion. And what if someone saw him in this state? There were enough rumors surrounding Holmes as it was already.  
Carefully he put his hand under Holmes chin and lifted his face. Two sea-blue eyes opened up and looked at him.  
'Sir, with your permission I'll put you in my bed for the night', John hazarded. Hoping Holmes was aware enough to understand him. But all the reply he got was a slurred: 'Oh, You're sssstil here?' and something resembling a nod.  
John sighed and once again slung Holmes arm around his shoulder, hoisting the nobleman to his feet all too much aware of the naked flesh underneath his fingers.  
John tried to think about what they looked like right now as little as possible.  
At least Holmes was still sort of conscious now and so they both managed to stay on their feet. Albeit barely.  
The stairs in particular proved to be quite a challenge. They almost fell down twice, but by the grace of god they made it to the top in one piece.  
Slightly out of breath John lowered Holmes onto his bed. Immediately the nobleman stretched out and let out a contented sigh. John briefly pondered undressing the man more so he could sleep more comfortably, but the thought of undoing Master Holmes breeches made him so uncomfortable that he decided against it. In the end he only took of his riding boots to at least get as little mud on his bed as possible.  
Holmes was fast asleep.  
John sighed again and covered him with as much blankets as he could find. Saving only one for himself. He would sleep downstairs in the barn tonight. He'd make a bed of fresh hay to keep him warm. It would suffice. He'd slept at worse places in the army.  
He looked at Holmes one last time. Now that the adrenaline was leaving his body he was a bit unsure about what to do next.  
Holmes seemed comfortable enough. He snored gently as he slept. He would be fine after some proper sleep.  
As quietly as John could he descended the stairs again. Holmes horse was still there. Stomping at the ground with one of its hooves. Seemingly annoyed that the bridle in its mouth was preventing it from eating properly. John smiled.  
'Alright, alright', he said as he gently guided the horse towards an empty stable, 'I'll see to you next'.  
It ended up taking him another hour to get the horse properly brushed down, fed and watered.  
John was completely exhausted. With his final strength he made himself a bed in another empty stable and fell asleep instantly. 

When he woke in the morning sunlight was already starting to filter into the barn. He had overslept, but the storm at least seemed to have passed.  
As he sat up he wondered for a brief moment why he was not in his bed, but all too soon the events from the previous night came flooding back to him. He rubbed his face with his hands and groaned. He'd really hoped that had been just a dream. From the stall next to him Master Holmes horse softly whinnied at him as if it somehow knew what he was thinking about.  
Master Holmes.  
Would he still be upstairs.  
His cloak, coat and shirt were gone at least. Before going to sleep last night he had left them on the chair Holmes had sat on. The chair was empty now.  
Gingerly John ascended the stairs to his room and opened the door slowly with a trembling hand. What was he even going to say if his lordship was still there? This was such a bad idea, but given the state Holmes was in last night he might not remember where he was or why he was there... or why his shirt and coat were missing. John owed him some kind of explanation before he would jump to the wrong conclusion himself.  
As the door slowly swung open John glanced inside. His bed had decidedly been slept in, but Master Holmes was gone.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could not be more surprised to find that some of you actually read my first chapter. And some people even liked it!  
> So I thought I needed to add the chapter at least where John and Sherlock meet. Give it a bit more substance.  
> Hopefully there is some enjoyment to be found in this chapter as well ;-)
> 
> Have a lovely day y'all!  
> Vanimelda.
> 
> Ps: I recently discovered there is a movie called 'Strange Magic'. My story was not inspired by that, but rather by the lovely ELO song.


	3. A second encounter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Master Holmes remains just as illusive as before.  
> This is a shorter chapter I'm afraid.  
> I just felt this story needed an update. I have so many plans for it.

With a heavy workload ahead of him and the sun having already started its steady ascent through the sky all thoughts of master Holmes and the events of the previous night were soon driven to a small corner at the back of Johns mind. Destined to remain there until well into the afternoon when he stopped by the kitchen for a quick bite to eat.

As soon as Mary saw him enter the kitchen she came bounding up to him. A wide smile on her face, her hands clenched into tight fists in front of her chest, her whole body positively vibrating with barely contained excitement.  
'Did you hear what happened last night!' she blurted out as soon as John was close enough to hear her.  
'Good afternoon to you too, Mary.'  
'Yes, yes, same to you', she replied with an impatient wave of her hand, 'Master Holmes came home last night.'  
'I didn't think you would be this excited by his return.' John felt it was best to not show his hand and give away that he already knew everything there was to know about the events of last night. Mary couldn't possibly know anything about that....could she?  
Mary's smile turned positively mischievous now as she leaned in conspiratorially: 'It's not really a secret that most of us here rather not have him around, but he makes for great gossip.'  
'I'm not really one for gossip', John said. He felt it would be best to avoid talking about Master Holmes for now. Mary knew him better than anyone here and she might catch on that he knew a little bit more about the events of last night. And as soon as Mary knew...everybody knew. It was a well known fact she could not keep a secret to save her life.  
So he tried to turn away from her, focus his attention elsewhere and definitely not think of dark curls, color changing eyes and the feeling of Master Holmes' naked flesh underneath his fingertips, but Mary was having none of it as she grabbed his arm and held him in place.  
'Come now, John', she said, both her hands were gripping the sleeve of his jacket tightly, 'don't be a spoilsport! I have to talk to someone about it or I'll positively die.' the corners of her mouth drooped down in a mock pout as she batted her eyes at him, 'please, John.' she drawled.  
John sighed in exasperation, shook his head and smiled, 'all right, all right, but I have to get back to work in about 10 minutes.'  
'There's a LOT of talking I can get done in 10 minutes.'  
John knew she was by no means exaggerating. 

As Mary told it, Daisy, one of the maids in charge of cleaning the rooms had been in for quite a shock as she had gone into Master Holmes bedroom that morning to change the sheets as she periodically did when he was away.  
Instead of finding the bed empty she had found it occupied by the master of the house. Luckily he had been fast asleep and she had managed to make a quick getaway without waking him.  
According to Mary the other maids had to help Daisy to her room after her narrow escape where she had spent the rest of the morning shaking in bed. So traumatized had she been by this encounter. John was pretty sure that part of the story wasn't true and told her so, but Mary paid his objections no mind.  
The general consensus amongst the staff was that Master Holmes had been out gambling and drinking and had returned flat broke in the middle of the night to sleep off his massive hangover.  
John knew this part of the story wasn't true either, but he knew better than to comment on it. 

Master Holmes had been fatigued and close to passing out from it, but drunk he had not been. There had not even been the slightest hint of alcohol about his person. And John wasn't too sure about the gambling either. None of it explained the blood.  
He wasn't sure why, after all their encounter had been very brief and Holmes had been unconscious for the most of it, but somehow Master Holmes hadn't stricken him as the type of person who would lead such a frivolous lifestyle.  
Even slumped over in a chair there had been an air of grace and control over him. Sure, there had been a hint of mystery and questions left unanswered, but John was pretty sure that none of Master Holmes' secrets were as mundane as drinking and gambling. There was more there than met the eye. 

But before John could ponder the topic any more duty called again and he spent the rest of his day repairing damage dealt to the mansion and stable complex by the storms of the previous nights. A job that kept him outside in the wintry cold mostly and thankfully far away from Mary's gossiping and sharp eyes.  
And as evening rolled around he felt cold, tired, but contented as he was making sure all horses were comfortable in their respective stables. All thoughts of the enigmatic master of the house had been driven from his mind once again. 

So John was caught completely off guard when the stable doors opened and, as he turned around to see who would visit so late in the evening, he was greeted by the sight of a much more coherent Master Holmes.  
And what a difference a day made.  
His wild curls had been tamed and had been neatly slicked back. He had changed his soiled cloak and riding gear for a pair of very well fitting trousers, a spotless white shirt and a tailored waist coat. Now no longer burdened with helping him support his weight John could fully appreciate how tall and slim his figure actually was. And as his piercing eyes found John he no longer seemed a wild fairy, but looked every bit the lord that he actually was. 

'Watson, wasn't it?' No longer slurring the masters voice was even deeper than before. A rich baritone that reminded John of oncoming storms and the thunder of last night.  
'Yes sir', was all John could reply. Unable to keep just a hint of nerves out of his voice. 'Do you need your horse, sir?'  
'My horse, why....no...I have no need of it. I assume you're taking good care of it?' he seemed to have been taken aback a bit by Johns question. If not for his horse, then why was he here?  
'Of course sir.'  
Holmes just nodded and an uncomfortable silence filled the air.  
This is it, John thought, he is going to send me away. Why else would he be here. He clearly remembers what happened last night and probably does not want the truth to be spread amongst the household. What with his reputation being on shaky ground at best and all the rumors that are already making the rounds.  
'I have come here to talk to you,' Master Holmes' voice, commanding once again, broke Johns train of thought.  
John wasn't sure how to respond. His masters face was stern. He bore a haughty expression that John could not quite place as his eyes seemed to briefly change color.  
As John remained silent Master Holmes just sighed and rolled his eyes.  
'I did not kill anyone if that's what you're wondering.'  
'What? No, sir....I was not.....even if you did, sir, it would be none of my business.'  
Holmes actually smiled at this. Just the left corner of his mouth raised slightly. But it was gone again before John had time to register it.  
'I suppose not' he replied, 'and I'm sure death does not faze you all that much. With your military background and all', for the briefest of moments the smile was back and even though Holmes only looked him up and down briefly John felt laid bare under his gaze.  
'No', John replied as he folded his arms in front of him, 'it does not.' He wasn't sure how Holmes knew about his former career, having only been back for a day, but he was not about to play along with whatever game he was playing. If Holmes secrets were his own then certainly so were Johns. He had taken on this job to forget about his past. Not to be reminded of it. If he was about to be fired then so be it, but he would go with his dignity intact.  
'Anything I can help you with, sir?' there was a bit more bite to the word “sir” than he had intended there to be, but John found he didn't really care.  
Holmes expression remained inscrutable.  
'I most certainly do not owe you any form of explanation', Holmes said, 'but the matters of last night need to be addressed', he had completely schooled his features now and the smile had all but vanished, John realized with just the smallest hint of regret.  
'For the record', John replied, still a tense edge to his tone of voice. He would not be cowed into submission, 'I have not spoken to anyone about last night, nor was I planning to do so. Your secrets are your own. Just as mine are mine. Sir'.  
Another silence filled the stables as Holmes once again fixed his gaze on John. His eyes now an unnatural icy blue color and John could almost feel their stare on him as a physical weight. He shifted uncomfortably.  
This damn stubbornness had gotten him into trouble so many times before. It was part of the reason why he hardly ever went home to visit his mother, why he had so little friends in the army and it would probably be the reason why he was about to be let go now.  
He was so sure that this was to be his last day at the estate that when Holmes finally did answer him he was taken completely by surprise.  
'Good. That's....very good. I....thank you.'

Thank you? 

Where did that come from?

John was pretty sure that in the few moments of silence between them, as his masters strange eyes had been fixed on him, Holmes had reached some sort of conclusion about him and he wasn't sure whether he wanted to know what it was. 

John didn't really know what to say in return. For some reason “you're welcome” didn't quite seem appropriate.  
But before he could figure out what he should say, or what had actually just happened, Holmes spoke again:  
'I do believe that's that matter sorted, I'll leave you be for the night. No doubt we'll meet again sometime.'  
His haughty lord-like air was completely back and John wondered if this was actually the real him at all or just a facade. As he thought back on the hint of a smile, unruly dark curls and wild eyes that seemed to be made of magic something about this stern and cold air just didn't feel right. 

Without waiting for a reply Holmes just turned around and left. Leaving John with more questions than answers. That had not sorted the matter in the slightest. Had Holmes only come here to ask for Johns silence on the matter then? Had he honestly thought John would be the kind of person that would go around spreading more rumors about his employer? Had this conversation even been about the events of last night at all?  
John had a feeling there had been a whole other layer to their conversation that only Holmes had been privy to. 

We'll meet again. 

That's what he'd said. 

John wasn't sure if he actually wanted to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to anyone who is still reading this.  
> In the next chapter: A ball and a misunderstanding at Holmes manor.


	4. A ball at Holmes Manor (part I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A ball is in the making at Holmes Manor. Not everybody is equally excited.  
> (This chapter will be posted in two parts. It's turning out to be longer than I was expecting)

Sherlock Holmes was seated at the dinner table with his stepmother and -sisters.  
He poked wistfully at his plate as the shrill sound of their voices penetrated his ears as they talked amongst each other.  
Being around people again was torture. Especially these people.  
He should have taken his supper alone in his rooms as he had initially intended, but his stepmother had been very persuasive.  
He sighed as he used his fork to roll his peas from one side of his plate to the other. Whenever she had her mind set on something it was best to just give in and be done with it. Try to defy her and she would not let the matter go until the day you died.  
Whenever he wondered to himself why on earth his father would have married a woman as thoroughly unpleasant as her he was reminded of this character trait of hers and it all made a little bit more sense. He had learned long ago to pick his battles.  
He sighed again.  
A little bit too loud he realized to his dismay as his stepmother suddenly turned her attention to him.  
'I'm sorry, are we boring you, Sherlock?' she said. Her tone icy and annoyance written all over her face.  
'I've had a long day', his reply. He had found that the fewer words you said, the less she had to react to. It seemed however that today his stepmother was ready to react to just about anything.  
'Really?', she said as she cocked her head and slowly placed her fork back on the table, 'how fortunate then are we to have you grace us with your presence tonight.'  
One of his sisters started giggling, but with one sharp look from her mother she quickly bowed her head and pretended the contents of her plate were the most fascinating thing she'd ever seen.  
'Indeed', was all Sherlock said. He leaned back in his chair and sipped on his wine. The food did not seem to be agreeing with him at all tonight. This was usually the case when he'd been away for too long.  
'Do you have any idea', his stepmother continued, 'what kind of rumors have been making the rounds ever since you came back?'  
'I'm sure they're wildly exaggerated.'  
'Exaggerated?', here she slapped her hand on the table. The silverware and glasses rattled and both his sisters jumped, 'do you have any idea of the lengths I have to go to to try and keep your reputation intact? What people are saying about you? What they say about me and my daughters, because you like to go out and have a good time?'  
'I assure you, I was not having a good time', Sherlock sipped some more of his wine. One arm slung nonchalantly over the back of his seat. Wine was always good when he got back. Thank god for wine.  
'What would your father have said if he saw what kind of sorry excuse of a lord you've become.'  
Sherlock did not reply. The words did cut deep, but he knew she had only spoken them to try and get a reaction from him. Every time she really wanted to hurt him she would bring up his father and how much not like his father he had turned out to be. If only she knew.... Tonight he wasn't taking the bait. Instead he decided to empty his glass in one go and pour himself another.  
His stepmother raised her hands in exasperation. Both her daughters seemed to sink a bit lower in their chairs.  
'If only you would at least try to be a proper lord.'  
Sherlock drank some more wine. Being a proper lord was not exactly at the top of his list of priorities right now.  
His stepmother continued talking: 'I will not let you be responsible for the downfall of Holmes Manor.'  
'I'm sure the place won't come crumbling down overnight.'  
'This is not a joke!', once again the glasses on the table rattled as his stepmother now slammed both hands on the table, 'you listen to me Sherlock Holmes. We have become the laughing stock of the entire community. All because of you. Your father built up a respectable reputation during his lifetime and now that he's gone you just seem intent on tearing it all down.'  
As his stepmother spouted accusations Sherlock felt a familiar heat starting to rise inside of him. As always it began with a slight tingling in his fingertips. He clenched and unclenched the hand currently not holding his glass in an attempt to will it away; barely registering the words directed at him. He'd heard this speech before. He'd heard it every single time he came back from a long trip. Although the phrasing tended to differ from time to time, the general message was always the same: Sherlock was an embarrassment to his family, to his father, a pariah in the noble community. If he continued soiling the family name like this they'd all end up being ostracized and where would that leave his stepmother and her poor daughters. He couldn't really find it in himself to care. He had a heavier burden to carry than upholding his image as a proper nobleman.  
By now the tingling had traveled from his fingertips all the way up his arms to his chest. And while Sherlock welcomed this internal fire on some occasions, tonight was not one of them. Maybe he had been away for too long after all.  
'Are you even listening to me?' his stepmother was still talking it seemed.  
Sherlock tried looking at her, but by now the internal fire had traveled further upwards and it nestled behind his eyes and made him see stars as his vision blurred.  
Sherlock shook his head in an attempt to dislodge the tiny stars and quickly sipped more of his wine.  
The wine seemed to help and his stepmothers sour face came back into focus.  
'I have sent out messages to the most respectable families in the area that we are having a ball in three days', she said, 'A ball that you WILL attend and where you WILL show the community that you are a respectable member of society and not some wild beast that goes around fighting and gambling away the family fortune.'  
Sherlock wanted to protest. Tell her where she could stick her so called “ball” and “reputation”, but he was still not feeling quite like himself. The fire inside only barely under control. The wine just enough to calm it, but not quench it entirely.  
'Sure', he said instead as he took another big sip from his glass, 'why not.'  
How bad could one ball be. Besides, there would be wine. Thank god for wine. 

**********************************************************************************  
John had not been having a good day. His shoulder and leg were killing him. The last couple of days a cold wind from the north had been blowing relentlessly. Turning the winter air into sharp ice that sliced the faces and hands of those brave enough to go outside.  
John found the abysmal weather made work during the day laborious and sleeping at night nearly impossible; his too thin blankets not enough to keep the cold out.  
The wintry chill seemed to have climbed into every fiber of his being as it made a home out of his bones. His leg seemed to have gotten the worst of it and today John found himself unable to do anything more than limp along.  
He felt fragile, vulnerable, soft. He hated it. He had been in a foul mood all day.  
Even Mary had given him a wide berth ever since he had snapped at her that morning.  
He felt a bit guilty about chasing her away like that. None of this was her fault really. But he was also grateful for the precious moments of solitude her absence provided.  
He would be getting more than his fair share of people in a couple of hours anyway.  
Mrs. Holmes and her daughters were having a ball this evening and John would be in charge of taking care of the horses of the lords and ladies that attended.  
It could have been worse. At least he didn't have to wait on the guests inside the house. Serve them food an drinks. Mary had been looking forward to it, but he shuddered at the thought.  
'It's been ages since we had a proper ball!' Mary had said to him two days ago when the news had been announced. She had clapped her hands together in excitement like a child. John had just shrugged: 'I don't really see the point in getting excited about a ball you don't even get to attend.'  
'But I do get to attend!'  
'You get to serve drinks.'  
'So? I get to see all the ladies in their pretty dresses and I bet there'll be music.' a dreamy smile had been on her face as she gazed off into the distance and let out an exaggerated sigh.  
Suddenly she had grabbed him by the arm and slung it around her waist as she swayed from side to side. 'Dance with me, John!'  
He had laughed as he twirled her around. Then her enthusiasm had been contagious. 

************************************************************************************************

So far Johns night was going fairly well. His shoulder and leg were not giving him too much trouble even though in the early stages of the evening he had had his work cut out for him as all the lords and ladies had seemed to arrive at the same time, but at least they had acted like proper lords and ladies and had pretended as if he wasn't there. Just part of the interior as far as they were concerned.  
John liked it that way. His work lay with the horses anyway. Not the people.  
He had exchanged a brief word with some of the coachmen here and there, but they too had soon left to find food and warmth in the mansions staff-kitchen.  
By now the main rush seemed to be over as most of the guests had found their way to the house and John found himself blissfully alone once again. He had made sure all the horses were brushed down and properly fed and watered. Ready for the ride back later that evening or for some even the next morning as some of the guests were staying the night at Holmes manor. He had half a mind to climb up the ladder to his small room where the cold wintry draft wasn't as pronounced as it was on the main floor when suddenly the stable doors swung open again.  
Just for a second John had a vision of a black horse with a hooded rider silhouetted by a lightning streaked sky, but as he blinked his eyes the vision was gone and it became apparent that it was just one of the guests arriving late as a young nobleman with fair hair was guiding a dapple gray horse inside. 

'Good evening sir', John said. Still trying to shake the memory of raven black curls from his mind.  
The nobleman gave him a surprised look. As if he had just now noticed him.  
'Good evening to you too', he replied. A smile forming on his face as he looked John over.  
'Shall I take your horse from you sir?'  
The nobleman's smile widened: 'Are you the stableman here?'  
'Indeed I am sir.'  
'By god, quite the improvement. When I was here last year there was some old man tending the stables. Terribly slow and quite near sighted. I don't think he knew a horse from a cow.'  
'Mr. Gregson, sir. He still works here.' John smiled back with what he hoped looked like a sincere smile.  
'Well, I'd take you over him any time.' the nobleman said as he led his horse towards John, handing him the reins. 

The dapple gray horse was a docile creature. Going willingly with John as he had one hand on the bridle and the other on the reins as he led it to a free stable. With this gentleman arriving so late he figured he would probably be amongst the guests staying the night at Holmes manor. There would be plenty of time to get the horse brushed down properly, but with the stables being so drafty and the night being so cold he should probably still get the horse dried off relatively quickly.  
Coming back out of the stable John, to his surprise, found the fair haired gentleman still at the stable-complex. He was casually leaning against one of the wooden posts that went up towards to roof, but when he saw John emerge the smile on his face widened and he came walking up to him once more.  
Startled, John stepped back, a stinging pain in his left leg the result. He hadn't really realized how much he'd been on his feet this evening until now.  
'Anything else I can do for you, sir?' he asked as he tried stepping back further only to find the smooth wood of the stable door at his back.  
The gentleman leaned in close and John noticed absentmindedly how there was a slight hint of honey to his breath.  
'Will you be here all alone tonight?' the gentleman asked. Smile perfectly stuck to his face.  
'I have a lot of work to do tonight', John replied. Evading the question as he felt the man's breath ghost over his cheek as he puffed out a laugh.  
'Well, if you get bored', the man said, 'you know where to find me.'  
John just nodded, avoiding the man's eyes as pins and needles traveled up and down his injured leg.  
The man laughed again and for a second John thought he felt the soft touch of fingers on his hand, but before he could register it the man was moving away from him again and, to Johns relief, headed for the stable doors.  
But just as the man was about to head outside he turned back once more. 'It was lovely meeting you', he said as he licked his lips. 'Such, such an improvement over that old, senile man.'  
And with that he was gone.  
John let out a breath he didn't know he was holding and as his leg finally gave out and he sank to the stable floor the dapple gray horse softly whinnied behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many thanks to anyone still reading.  
> If there are any mistakes in the text: I have no beta readers. It's just me.


	5. A ball at Holmes Manor (part II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ball finally commences.  
> Will Holmes attend? Will John be able to catch a glimpse of him?  
> It surely will be a night to remember.

'John? Are you in here?'  
This time John didn't have to guess who had just entered the stables.  
He'd recognize Mary's voice anywhere.  
John silently smiled to himself as he heard her mutter a curse as she seemed to bump into something as she tried to make her way through the ill lit barn.  
'Over here, Mary!' he called out.  
It had been at least an hour and a half since the fair haired gentleman had left to join the other party-goers at the house and John had finished up with the last of his tasks about 30 minutes ago. At the moment he was sitting on the old chair in the least drafty corner of the barn huddled in the biggest blanket he could find. He had his left leg stretched out in front of him. It was still hurting, but sitting like this made the pain slightly easier to bear.  
It didn't take long for Mary to find him there. Her smiling face slowly emerging out of the shadows that had come crawling out of the walls as the night progressed.  
'What are you doing huddled in a corner like that?' she asked. A look on her face that was awfully close to relief.  
John just shrugged his shoulders. He didn't really feel like talking tonight, but Mary knew him well.  
'Is it your leg?', she asked. The look she bore on her face shifting into something that looked an a lot like concern.  
'Yeah', was all John said, trying his best not to look at her. He'd seen that look on so many people in the last year. He didn't need to see it again.  
Mary heaved a sigh and sat down on the floor next to him, her knees drawn up close to her body to keep out the cold as she leaned her shoulder against his thigh.  
'Anything I can do to help you?' she asked.  
'Not really', he managed to produce a smile as she looked up at him. Her eyes big and sorrowful. 'It'll get better if I give it some rest. Shouldn't you be at the ball?'  
Here she smiled mischievous and in a stage whisper she replied: 'I snuck out!' and winked at him, 'I wanted to see if you weren't getting sad and lonely over here all on your own.... seems like I got here just in time'  
'I'm not alone. I have the horses.'  
'You can't talk to horses, John.'  
'You can talk to anything if you set your mind to it.'  
Mary giggled, 'crazy people talk to horses.'  
'Maybe I am crazy.'  
She playfully bumped his leg with her shoulder, 'good thing I like crazy then.'  
John didn't quite know what to reply. He had noticed Mary getting more and more flirtatious with him as time went on and it made him feel a bit uncomfortable. He liked Mary well enough, but only as a friend. It wasn't so much anything she said or did. She was easy to talk to and fairly pretty, but, if he was perfectly honest with himself, he was still grieving over the loss of James. To let love back into his heart meant reopening doors he had shut after James had died and he was not yet ready for that to happen. And besides, with his physical disabilities and recurring nightmares from which he often woke up screaming and bathed in sweat he doubted very much he'd be husband material.  
They sat side by side in silence for a while, the shadows deepening in the space around them as well as inside Johns head as the reality of his current position once again sunk in, until, finally, Mary spoke again: 'I actually came to get you.'  
'Get me? What for?'  
'To come and have a look at the ball! It's all so beautiful.' A dreamy look was on her face as she stared off into the distance.  
'I doubt all those lords and ladies will like having me snooping around the ballroom, Mary.'  
'No, but that's the thing! There's this one hallway that runs from the kitchen to the ballroom, the guests don't use it and if you just stand around the corner you can see into the ballroom without anyone noticing you!'  
John gave her a look that said he was anything but convinced.  
'Everybody's been doing it! Come on John! If you come you can also sit in the kitchen for a bit and have a bite to eat...and warm up', she shivered and drew her legs closer to her chest, 'it's always so cold in here.'  
John looked at her as she pressed her body closer against his thigh in an attempt to share his body heat, 'will you take “no” for an answer?' he tried against his better judgment.  
'Absolutely not.'  
John sighed and rolled his eyes, but he couldn't help smiling. Mary was a good friend and he could do with a bit of food. 'Alright then. Lead the way.'  
Mary was back on her feet so fast it almost knocked him out of his chair and before he knew it she had a hold on both of his hands pulling him back on his feet, his blanket falling to the ground in a messy heap.  
'That's my favorite blanket', he said wistfully as Mary was already maneuvering them towards the doors.  
'No time!' she exclaimed, 'the ball awaits!'  
He really hoped he wasn't going to regret this. 

***************************************************************************************

As it turned out Mary had been right about the hallway. It was a perfect spot to watch the ball without being noticed. The entrance was tucked all the way back into a corner which made the chances of any of the party-goers seeing it relatively small since all the festivities were centered in the middle of the room. The hallway was also pretty narrow and poorly lit. A stark contrast with the bright, open and cheery ballroom. So if anyone at the ball were to look in their direction they'd just see nothing but darkness at first and in the time it would take for their eyes to adjust whoever was in the hallway had ample time to slip back into the shadows unnoticed. 

Mary was pressed close against him as they stood side by side, peering around the corner into the grand ballroom of Holmes Manor. On John's insistence they had stopped by the kitchen first. He really had worked up an appetite over the evening. Mary had reluctantly agreed, far too excited to get back to the ball. And as soon as he had taken his last bite she had once again grabbed his hands, pulling him along towards their final destination, barely giving him enough time to swallow.  
And now, seeing it for himself, John kind of understood why she had been so excited. The ballroom looked amazing. The entire room was bathed in a golden light. There were countless opulent candlesticks along every wall and, as if that wasn't enough, on the ceiling a crystal chandelier spread an otherworldly light that, in turn, was reflected by a dozen strategically placed mirrors in different corners of the room. It looked like something out of a fairytale.  
In the opposite corner John could see a group of musicians, They were playing a tune he didn't recognize, but the guests obviously did as a lot of them were dancing. Two rows of people had formed in front of the musicians, one with only men and one with only women, and they were weaving around each other gracefully in a complicated pattern that fitted the tone of the music. Subconsciously John put his hand on his left leg.  
He was actually pretty amazed that there was even space to dance, because the room was absolutely packed with people.  
'Isn't everybody beautiful', Mary said. Her voice barely a whisper in the dark, but with her pressed so close to him there was no need for anything louder.  
And John had to admit she was right. Everybody looked absolutely stunning. As he looked around he saw more silk than he'd ever thought to see in his entire lifetime. Pretty soon he spotted the two daughters of the widowed Mrs. Holmes. They both wore silk dresses in a light blue color with skirts so big he wondered if they were actually able to pass through the door at all. They both looked equally uncomfortable. Mrs. Holmes was standing a little ways back, talking to an older gentleman. Her dress was a bit more sober than the ones her daughters wore. The color was a darker blue and it had velvet trimmings along the neckline. It still looked incredibly expensive.  
'I wish I had a dress like that', Mary whispered. John wasn't sure which of the countless dresses swirling around the room she meant, but he felt it didn't really matter.  
As John let his eyes drift over the sea of silk, colors and motion before him he couldn't help, but wonder if Sherlock Holmes was here somewhere too.  
The last time that he had met the lord of the house had already been so vastly different from the first time he'd seen him. He couldn't help but wonder what he would look like in the kind of expensive, well fitting attire the other gentlemen at the party were wearing. And as the memory of black unruly curls and eyes that seemed to be made out of magic filled his mind he turned his head slightly closer to Mary and, keeping his voice low, asked: 'Have you seen Mister Holmes yet?'  
Mary just shook her head. 'No, I don't think he's here. He's probably already had his fill of parties these last couple of months.'  
'Oh'. John couldn't help but feel a little bit disappointed. He wasn't sure what it was about the master of the house that made Johns thoughts dwell on him so often. After everything that had occurred in the past couple of days any person with the tiniest bit of common sense would try and stay as far away from him as possible, but John had found he could not. Instead of fear he found that what he felt when he thought of Master Holmes was a mixture of curiosity and excitement he hadn't felt in a long time. It reminded him of his time in the army before everything went to hell in a handbasket. Back when James was still alive.  
He swallowed around a sudden unbidden lump in his throat and quietly shook his head in an attempt to clear away the dark memories of the past. He'd think on James another time. When he was alone again.  
He was just about to turn to Mary to ask her if it was alright by her if he left her on her own for a bit when he suddenly saw him. Just out of the corner of his eye at first.  
Sherlock Holmes.  
Standing on his own in the darkest corner of the room. He was nonchalantly leaning against a mantel, a glass in his hand and a look of utter, crushing boredom on his face.  
John felt the corners of his mouth lift slightly upwards.  
He could understand why Mary had thought he hadn't been here. It was almost as if he was trying not to be seen. Having placed himself as far away from the humdrum of the party as he possibly could, not interacting with any of the guests, hardly moving at all. Even now that John knew where he was he had a hard time focusing on him. Every time he looked directly at him it was as if his eyes just slid right off again. It was odd. Maybe it had something to do with the lighting in that particular part of the room....but the longer John looked at him, the easier he felt it was to keep his features into focus and the more he came to realize that Sherlock Holmes looked absolutely gorgeous tonight.  
His raven hair was slicked neatly back and glistened appealingly in the light of the candles.  
True to character a couple of obstinate curls seemed to be reluctant to be tamed as they hung defiantly over his forehead. He wore slim, dark, high waisted pants that more than accentuated the natural curve of his body. On top of that he wore a black jacket that was almost the exact same shade as his hair, a white shirt and a deep purple necktie. All of which made a stark contrast with his surprisingly light skin tone.  
John let his gaze wander across Holmes' body appreciatively.  
And then there were his eyes. From his hiding spot in the hallway well across the room he couldn't make out their color, but it was almost as if they shone with a light of their own. A light you could only really tell was there when you were looking directly at them.  
John froze.  
Master Holmes was looking directly at him.  
While John had been admiring his masters attire he seemed to have turned his head and now that icy gaze was fixed directly upon him.  
There was no way Holmes would be able to see him in this dark hallway all the way from across the room, wouldn't he?  
Would he?  
As Master Holmes' unblinking gaze seemed to have glued him to the place where he stood he wasn't too sure anymore.  
'John? What's wrong?' Mary sounded concerned, 'Is it your leg again?'  
John didn't answer and as Sherlock Holmes slowly lifted his glass and nodded as if he was giving a toast John quickly turned around and fled. 

************************************************************************************

John was completely out of breath when he closed the stable-doors behind him. Barely able to stay upright any longer he made it just a couple of steps further until he sank down on the ground. His back against a large wooden crate used to store hay. His lungs felt as if they were on fire as he struggled for air in big, gasping breaths and his leg felt as if someone had stabbed it with a knife. With the way his leg had been acting up today he should definitely not have been running in the cold winter air. But he was almost positive Holmes had seen him. Had looked right at him. It didn't seem possible, and yet....  
His head was spinning as he tried to make sense of what had just happened.  
He wasn't given much time to think however, because just as his breathing started to even out the doors he had closed only minutes before were opening again.  
But where he was expecting to see Mary or, in the worst case, Master Holmes, John saw someone else entirely.  
There, silhouetted by the moon, frost starting to form on the shoulders of his jacket and with a look on his face that made Johns blood run cold for the second time that night the gentleman with the fair hair that John had met earlier that evening stood.  
Using the crate at his back to balance himself John managed to pull himself upright again as his leg protested violently. The gentleman made his way towards John only stopping when he stood inches before him. He leaned forward, placing his hands on the crate at Johns back, effectively caging him between his arms. His breath no longer smelt like honey, but more like an entire brewery. It made John sick to his stomach.  
'Now where did you run off to so quickly?' the man asked as he leaned in just a little bit closer, 'I saw you looking at me from your hiding spot with that servant girl. Were you getting lonely out here in the stables all by yourself?'  
Not for the first time in his life John silently cursed his leg. Any other night of the year he would have been perfectly capable of sending this gentleman on his way. At the moment however his left leg was completely useless to him. He was more or less holding himself upright by his arms which he had firmly planted on the crate behind him and with the gentleman leaning in so closely he saw no way of changing his position.  
And to his even greater despair he realized he would not be able to keep himself upright like this for long as he felt his left shoulder starting to ache with a familiar stinging pain as his torn tendons were stretched beyond their limits.  
'I'm perfectly fine here on my own', he tried. His tone flat.  
'Oh, but we can have so much more fun with the two of us', the man had moved his face so close to Johns now that their cheeks were touching and John could feel his breath on the back of his neck as he whispered in his ear: 'such a pretty thing you are.'  
And as the man started kissing a path along his neck and John found himself unable to move away or even fight him off he felt a mixture of emotions.  
There was anger first, how dare this man touch him like this.  
'Hey, get off me!' he shouted as he made a futile attempt to get away, but with the mans body pressed firmly against him and the crate at his back he was unable to escape.  
'I like it when they fight a little', the man growled as he continued his assault on Johns neck and as he pressed even closer into him John could feel the mans erection against his thigh.  
Disgust was the next emotion John felt. The things this vile disgusting man apparently wanted to do to him. It made him want to throw up.  
Again he struggled and tried to get away, but it was to no avail. He was caged in between the crate at his back, the mans arms at his sides and his body at his front.  
The final emotion John felt was red, hot embarrassment. He was a soldier for gods sake. He had fought wars, he had killed people. And now he was bested by some foppish, drunken nobleman who probably hadn't even been near a proper fight in his life.  
He felt useless, miserable, unworthy. Maybe he deserved what was happening to him.  
His arms were starting to shake now. He wouldn't be able to hold this position for much longer and when his shoulder would inevitably fail him along with his leg he would slide to the ground and the man would be on top of him and it would all be over. He closed his eyes in defeat and just as he felt his body starting to sink to the stable floor, suddenly, the weight of the man on top of him was gone.  
Slowly John opened his eyes in confusion and once again he was met with the radiant gaze of Sherlock Holmes.  
This time however it was not directed at him, but at the nobleman with the fair hair who was currently squirming in the tight grip Holmes had on the front of his jacket.  
'What the hell do you think you are doing?' Holmes baritone boomed and it seemed as if the entire building rattled and shook with the sound of his voice.  
The man squirmed some more as he laughed nervously, 'Mister Holmes', he said, 'this is all one big misunderstanding. I was just talking to the lad about my horse when he had a dizzy spell. I was just trying to help him out.'  
The look Holmes gave him closely resembled a thunderstorm with his eyes shining bright as two harsh flashes of lighting.  
'I want you gone before morning', Holmes said, his tone seemed calm, but, with any thunderstorm they all could sense the power that lay behind it. 'You will not go back to the party, you will leave your horse behind and you will NEVER come near this man again', Holmes continued, briefly gesturing at John with a nod of his head, 'and if you ever return to my home, I will kill you.'  
The man swallowed as he tried desperately to slide down inside his jacket so he could escape the powerful stare of Sherlock Holmes.  
'Understood?' Holmes said.  
A small 'yes' was the reply.  
And with that Holmes dragged the man to the open stable doors, threw him outside in the wintry cold and after closing the doors behind him he turned his attention to John. His face suddenly a lot softer than it had been mere seconds ago.  
'Are you alright?' he asked.  
John was most decidedly not alright. He felt awful. He felt like a failure. Holmes still looked exactly like he had at the party. Perfect hair, expensive clothing that fit him to a tee, a force to be reckoned with.  
Standing beside him now John felt his own inadequacy as a literal weight upon him. His embarrassment now went hand in hand with shame. Shame of who he had become. A soldier who couldn't even defend himself. His employer, this nobleman rumored to do nothing but drink and gamble had to come and save him. Like some kind of damsel in distress. This gorgeous, mysterious man had just seen him at his weakest and most vulnerable and John had not been prepared for it.  
His anger came flooding back again, but what or who he was angry at exactly he wasn't quite sure of.  
'I'm fine', he spat at Holmes.  
'Are you sure? I could....'  
'I said I'm fine!' John shouted now. Hoisting himself upright again. His muscles fueled by rage, shame and pure adrenaline.  
There was an inscrutable look on Holmes' face now. John wanted to both punch and kiss it at the same time and since he didn't seem to be capable of doing either of those things he decided to lash out with words instead.  
'I don't need you to come in and rescue me like some bloody knight in shining armor', he continued, unable to stop the flow of words coming from his mouth, 'I told you, your secrets are safe with me, alright, you don't need to feel like you have to do me any favors to buy my silence. So quit the act and piss off.'  
John knew what he was doing. He was spoiling for a fight. Any fight. Granted, a fight with Sherlock Holmes did not list amongst the best ideas he'd ever had, but he wasn't actually thinking with a clear head at the moment.  
The look on Holmes' face hardened minutely and his voice was devoid of any emotion when he answered.  
'I'm sorry you feel that way', he said, 'If you're sure you're alright I'll leave you be.'  
John nodded and with that Holmes turned around and was gone.  
It was then that Johns legs finally gave out for good that night and as he sank to the floor his vision blurred as hot tears fell down his face. 

*******************************************************************************************

John never made it up the stairs to his bed that night. Instead he crept inside one of the stables, covered himself with hay and fell into a restless sleep there.  
If any of the guests had come by for their horses at all John had been blissfully unaware of it. He did not wake up to the sound of the doors opening once.  
When he did wake up it was well into morning and he was sore all over, but to his relief he found he could walk again. Albeit still with a slight limp.  
Someone also seemed to have covered him with his blanket during the night. Mary must have come by, he thought. She really was a good friend.  
When he finally made his way to the kitchen later that day he learned that the fair haired gentleman had left quite suddenly before the ball had ended, leaving everything behind, even his horse. None of the household members seemed to know why. Now, in the light of day, after some sleep, John felt a small hint of satisfaction at this, but this feeling soon left him again when he learned that Master Holmes had also, quite unexpectedly, left during the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really getting into this story again.  
> Many thanks for all the kudos and love it has gotten since my last update.


	6. Pride and apologies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Absence makes the heart grow fonder

When Sherlock Holmes finally reached the campfire it was well after midnight.  
There had been no snowfall in these parts, but the nights had been bitter cold all the same. The dirt road beneath his horse's hooves was frozen solid and as a result the sound of its slow trot echoed loudly in the frigid darkness that surrounded them.  
As the night had deepened vast clouds had drifted between them and the comforting light of the moon and stars, but by now Sherlock didn't need them anymore to tell him if he was going in the right direction. He had traveled down these roads so many times before he was convinced he'd be able to find his way here with his eyes closed.  
And as he now drew nearer to the fire he could just make out a familiar silhouette sitting at the opposite side warming itself by the soft glow of the embers.  
Sherlock smiled to himself.  
Of course Finn was here.  
Finn was always here.  
'You're back surprisingly early', Finn said without looking up as Sherlock dismounted and sat down as close to the fire as he dared, leaving his horse to wander freely, it would return of its own accord when he needed it again.  
'Nice to see you too, Finn.'  
Finn just looked at him questioningly. 'Why are you back so soon? Is there something going on?' he asked.  
'You tell me. You're always more up to speed with current affairs', Sherlock said as he shivered and poked at the fire with a stick, trying to breathe some life back into it. It was of no use. More and more embers silently fizzled out and were swallowed up by the dark of the icy December night that surrounded them. The circle of faint light Sherlock found himself in growing ever smaller and smaller. He found himself hunching forward slightly as the cold night air seemed to press on his back as a physical force.  
'I didn't mean in general', Finn replied, 'I meant with you.'  
'I'm fine. I'm always fine.'  
'Nobody is always fine.'  
Sherlock just thrust his hands underneath his armpits in an attempt to get some form of feeling back in his fingertips. He wondered if he'd ever get warm again.  
'I'm fine', he repeated.  
Finn shrugged dismissively and as he gently waved his hands through the air the fire roared back to life, 'don't tell me then.'  
As the warmth of the newly kindled fire reached him Sherlock felt his muscles relax once again. 'Thank you, Finn'.  
'Don't mention it.'  
They sat by the fire in companionable silence for a while. Sherlock warming his hands and Finn seemingly lost in thought. If you didn't look at him too closely the Dark Elf could almost pass as human. Only when you paid attention to the details did you notice that there was something not quite right. His complexion a strange shade between light brown and olive-green, closely resembling that of the people that lived far to the south, but if you looked really closely not quite the same. His short dark hair, neatly slicked back at the moment, seemed to be black, but the closer you got the more you noticed it was made out of darkness itself and looking at it too long would make you feel as if you'd gone temporarily blind. Now, well past the midnight hour, with Finn's magical fire as their only source of light it was hard to make out where the night ended and Finn began. Sometimes Sherlock wasn't sure if there even was a clear distinction. And then there were his eyes. To the casual onlooker they seemed to be an almost golden shade of brown, but on occasion flecks of red light could be seen swimming through his irises. Like liquid fire or barely contained magic. Even now, with black night all around them and the fire between them Sherlock could see it as Finn looked at him and spoke once again:  
'You do know it is unwise to travel if you're emotionally unstable, right?. Of course he would not leave the matter be.  
'I'll be fine.'  
'You keep saying that....' A crooked smile was forming on the Dark Elf's face as the light of the fire was reflected in his golden-red eyes.  
Sherlock shook his head as he returned the smile. 'I'm fine, Finn. Honestly.'  
'I'm just looking out for you, Sherlock. Someone has to.'  
'And it is appreciated.'  
Another moment of silence before Finn continued: 'Just stay clear of Her, yes?'  
'Don't I always?'  
A decided 'No' was Finn's swift and only reply.  
Sherlock chuckled and the fire grew marginally higher as Finn laughed as well.  
'Let's travel together tonight then', Finn said, a smile still on his face, 'I'll keep you safe.'  
Sherlock nodded, 'let's go then.'  
As they both got up Sherlock found his horse once again by his side. And as he patted its neck its black coat felt soft and comforting beneath his hand.  
Finn hardly ever rode a horse and so he continued on foot by Sherlock's side.  
The sound of the fire dying out behind them the last thing they heard before an otherworldly mist swallowed them.

***********************************************************************************  
Nobody at the household seemed to know where Master Holmes had gone and, John soon realized, nobody seemed to really care.  
'He came, he caused a commotion and he went again', Mary said laughing as John helped her carry firewood inside, 'what is there to talk about? He does this every time. Most likely we won't see him again for months and I for one am glad of it. I've had enough excitement to last me well into summer!'  
John felt a small pang of regret at her words. Regret at how their last encounter had ended. Master Holmes had been surprisingly caring and....soft?.....was that the word he was looking for? But in his own emotional and confused state he had bitten out some harsh words. Words he didn't mean. Words he should have never have said to the lord of the house. Words he wished he could take back, but couldn't because Holmes had left shortly after. He knew it was probably nonsense but part of him felt responsible for the swift departure.  
This was part of the reason why he wanted to know where Holmes had gone. Whether he was safe or not. Visions of Holmes drenched in blood, so tired he could barely stay conscious let alone support his own weight flooded his mind when he was alone at night and sleep would not come. He could not bear the thought of Holmes somehow coming to harm again, because of his actions.  
How wild Holmes had seemed that night they first met, but also almost regal....Otherworldly..... Beautiful.  
As a heat quite contradictory to the wintry chill suddenly warmed his body John rolled over on his belly, stuffing his face in the mattress as he squeezed his eyes tightly shut. His thoughts should definitely not go there. Once Holmes returned, whenever that may be, he should apologize for his transgressions.  
And with a determined mind he finally drifted off to sleep where his familiar nightmare once again welcomed him. Only this time he was not alone in his hellish dream-scape. This time Holmes was there too. Being torn apart by the razor-sharp birds alongside John. A look of disappointment on his ethereal face. And as John tried to stretch out a bloodied hand towards it. To help him, or maybe just to say sorry. Just as his fingers brushed the fair skin, leaving bloody marks in their wake, the ground opened up beneath them and darkness swallowed them whole.  
*******************************************************************************  
In the next couple of weeks regular life took over once again, but John found he still could not chase the thought of Holmes from his mind completely. More often than not he found himself wondering where the master of the house found himself at that moment. Especially when the weather was exceptionally harsh and the night unusually dark.  
But an answer never came.  
News of the surrounding areas and families reached the household on a regular basis and with Mary's fondness of gossip she made sure John heard all of it and then some, but never did she speak a word of Holmes and the one and only time John had asked her whether there was some news about him she just gave an exasperated sigh and said: 'I'm sure he'll turn up sometime, John. Like a stray dog....or a weed....he is impossible to get rid off.'  
After that she had continued her story about some lordship from a county over who had had illegitimate children with as much as three of his maids and his wife had only recently found out now that he had died and the maids were claiming they were owed an inheritance of some sort. John had stopped listening. 

Christmas and New Year rolled around and parties were held in the staff-kitchen. John attended, because at least it was better than being alone. He didn't really care too much for the holidays anymore. While everyone else was busy visiting relatives or, if they could not, sending letters and gifts home at least, John had no idea where he would even send a letter to. Or what he'd say......or if he even wanted to say anything.  
Things between him and his mother were not the same as they once had been and god only knew where his sister even called home at the moment. At times like this he just felt melancholy and lonely.  
So he let Mary drag him along to these parties in the hope that some of her endless enthusiasm would rub off on him.  
And in a way it did.  
As they were walking back to the stables side by side after a more than generous meal provided by Mrs. Holmes and maybe a bit too much wine his heart felt lighter than it had been for the last couple of weeks.  
There really was no point in Mary walking him back, but she had insisted.  
'What if you fall and hurt yourself on the way back?', she had said as innocently as possible, her cheeks slightly red with the flush of alcohol, 'I'd better come with to hold your hand'.  
John had laughed a bit harder than he should have, feeling the effects of the alcohol on himself too.  
'But then who's going to escort you back to the house?' he'd asked.  
Mary had just winked and leaned in closer, grabbing onto his jacket as the alcohol made her legs wobble and she lost her balance. 'We'll figure that out when we get there', she had said and John had closed his eyes and nodded. Briefly noticing how her breath felt warm on his cheek and smelled pleasantly sweet. 

And all too soon John found himself outside of the stables again. Mary close by his side. Her hand in his. He tried to remember when he had taken it, but his mind drew a blank.  
The weight of her warm, smaller hand in his felt like a comforting anchor tonight. Something to keep him grounded in reality and keep his mind from wandering where he did not want it to go. He softly squeezed her fingers and smiled down at her. She smiled back. Her face nothing but roundness and soft curves. No sharp edge to be found. Her complexion and hair fair and light. No hint of darkness in her. Mary held no secrets, her face read like an open book. With Mary you always knew what you were getting. Tonight he found the thought of security and predictability comforting. Especially now that thoughts of what had happened years before on this exact day came creeping back unbidden.  
'It's cold out, isn't it?' Mary said. John barely registered it. He was too busy trying to shake the memories of his father's cold and pale face from his mind. How he had looked when John had found him. Lifeless, his mouth opened in something resembling a scream, but no sound was coming out. No sound would ever pass those lips ever again. And John, being just a child still, faced with death for the first time in his life, had screamed for him.  
'Still beautiful though', Mary continued when John failed to answer and she sidled closer to him.  
The warmth of Mary's body pressed against his side seemed to wake John from his horrid visions.  
Once again he was aware of her hand in his, her expectant face looking up at him, the soft smile on her lips..... her lips.....  
And before he knew what he was doing he felt himself lean forward and press his mouth to hers. Another point of contact to anchor him to the here and now and drive out all thoughts of anything else that he is too scared to think about. For a moment Mary tensed, but all too soon she pushed herself firmer against him, the tension leaving her body, one of her hands finding the nape of his neck and her lips moving with his willingly.  
It only felt good and right for a moment. All too soon John realized how wrong this all actually was. He liked Mary sure, but as a friend. He loved her as a friend, but he was not in love with her. It had been the combination of his melancholy of late, his own confusion and not in a small bit the alcohol they had both imbibed over the course of the evening that had made him use her feelings for him to make himself feel better in such a cruel way.  
Softly he placed his hands on her shoulders and pushed her back. He wanted to say something to her. Anything. He needed to explain himself. Apologize to her. But he did not seem to know how.  
And as Mary witnessed regret, shame and a whole range of emotions flit across his face her beaming smile faltered and she held up her hand just as he was about to at least try and string a proper sentence together.  
'I know what you're going to say and it's better if you don't', she said, 'let's just leave it at this, yeah?' a pained and forced smile was on her face. 'We'll talk about this when we're both sober again.'  
John nodded, but Mary was already walking away and as she headed back towards the mansion John noticed absentmindedly that a fresh dusting of snow had just started to fall. Blanketing the first day of the new year in a fresh coat of white and swallowing up Mary's silhouette as she got further and further away from him. 

**********************************************************************************************

The next morning John did not feel any better. The events of the night before plagued his mind and when he recalled the look on Mary's face after he pulled away from their kiss he was once again filled with red, hot shame.  
He needed to talk to her. Soon. He had betrayed their friendship and he would do anything to set things right with her again. 

John was so lost in thought when he descended the stairs from his small bedroom to the stalls beneath that he only noticed Master Holmes standing there when he coughed politely.  
John let out a small startled yelp and he felt shame rise up inside him once again as the sight of his master made his heart beat slightly faster and a warm feeling spread through his chest.  
Holmes was wearing his riding gear and long cloak. There was no blood on them this time. Just a slight splattering of mud and the hem was wet where the snow had probably soaked into it. His hair was the same unruly array of curls it had been the first time John had laid eyes on him. Only this time John had the light of day to help him fully appreciate the vision in front of him.  
As John let his eyes wander over Master Holmes' form in disbelief, he had not been expecting to see him again until summer at least, he noticed a bandage had been wound around his left biceps. If he had been hurt during his travels this time around at least it had only been minor. He let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.  
Holmes seemed to grow a bit uncomfortable as John's shocked silence dragged on and in a baritone that was music to John's ears said: 'have I caught you at a bad time? I could come back later.....'  
'No, no!', John blurted out, but quickly composed himself again, 'I just wasn't expecting your lordship back so soon.'  
John felt a smile creep up on his face. Why was he smiling? And why could he not stop smiling? He felt slightly drunk all over again and looked down at his boots.  
'I had unfinished business back at the manor', Holmes replied.  
'Did you have a good trip, sir?' John asked. Pretty much just to ask anything at all.  
'Quite', the reply.  
'Where is your horse, sir?'  
'Oh, about, Holmes said, 'I'm sure it'll turn up eventually.'  
About? What.....What did that even mean? With each moment John spent in Holmes' company he started to realize that not only had his melancholy of the last few weeks been caused by the memories that always haunted him around that time of year and his uncertainty about his role in his masters disappearance, but also simply by the fact that he had been missing Sherlock Holmes. Maybe not Sherlock Holmes as a person, after all, what did he know about the man? But more the sense of mystery and adventure he had brought back into John's life. Something he hadn't known he'd been craving until it had been returned to him. And now that it was back. Standing in front of him looking all graceful and wild at the same time, something beautiful that cannot be tamed, like a wild rose, he felt as if a weight had been lifted off of his shoulders and he could not stop himself from smiling and to his delight he found Holmes smiling back at him. Briefly the corners of his Cupid's bow mouth turned up into something soft and warm and once again John felt his heart speed up.  
'I was wondering if I could take a moment of your time, John.' Holmes spoke again.  
'By all means, sir!'  
'Good, good', the smile had left Holmes' face again and he was looking anywhere but at John now. As if he was unsure where to begin. A couple of uncomfortable moments of silence slid by before he regained his composure and continued speaking: 'when we parted last time I fear my actions may have given you the wrong idea.'  
John couldn't believe what he was hearing. Was Sherlock Holmes....apologizing?  
'If you are under the impression that I am trying to buy your silence on the matter of the first night we met from you', Holmes continued, 'then you are mistaken. Despite what people say about me I am still a gentleman and would never stoop to anything so low as blackmail or bribery. In fact, I give you my full permission to talk to anyone you wish about the events of that night. God knows it won't be the worst story making the rounds about me these days.'  
John couldn't believe his ears. Here he had been these last three weeks trying to come up with some form of apology for his own actions that night and now Holmes had beat him to it. Surprising him once again, like a breath of fresh air.  
Holmes however seemed to grow uncomfortable, misinterpreting John's stunned silence, 'I'll leave you to your chores again', he said with a curt nod. Voice tense and cold and his posture stiff.  
Seeing him like this quickly made an end to the warm glow that had been spreading through Johns body and a sudden and cold fear was quickly taking its place. Having said what he had set out to say Holmes was evidently getting ready to leave and John couldn't let him. Not before he had had a chance to say what he had been wanting to say for the last three weeks. Not before he had had a chance to unload the weight that had been weighing down his heart and had made him worry about Holmes' absence so.  
'Thank you', he blurted out without thinking, 'sir', he quickly added when Holmes raised a haughty eyebrow at him. 'But I fear you are not the only one who might have been in the wrong that night, Sir.'  
Holmes now turned his full attention to him again. The tension leaving his body and an inquisitive curiosity taking its place.  
John swallowed.  
'I might have overreacted when you came to my aid, sir. It was never my intention to bite at you like that and had you still been at home the next day I would have made an effort to tell you so immediately and make my apologies to you and thank you for interfering that night.'  
A smug smile was slowly forming on Holmes' face, 'you _might_ have overreacted?' he said.  
Once again John had the urge to either punch or kiss him and, once again, he did neither. Instead he just nodded and Holmes' smile turned downright mischievous.  
'Apology accepted', Holmes said. His baritone voice even lower than it had been before and the warmth that had crept into his chest when John had first laid eyes on Holmes that day spread quite unexpectedly to his lower abdomen and he couldn't help but giggle.  
'Has that ghastly fellow ever returned?' Holmes asked. A hint of amusement to his voice.  
'What? Oh, no! No. Not even to collect his horse.'  
'Good.' Holmes looked downright smug. 'You can have it if you want.'  
'What?'  
'The gray horse. If you want it, it's yours.'  
'You're giving me a horse?' John was slowly losing track of the conversation.  
Suddenly the smug look on Holmes face was gone, 'I didn't mean...' he stammered, it was surprisingly endearing, 'not as a bribe....it's just that. I have no need for another horse.'  
How many more times would this man surprise him, John wondered. He just smiled and this seemed to put Holmes back at ease.  
'Where would I keep a horse?' he asked.  
Holmes raised an eyebrow and gestured around him.  
'I can't just keep my horse in your stables, sir. And besides, I can't afford to keep a horse'  
Holmes just sighed and rolled his eyes, 'fine', he said, 'then I'm not giving you the horse. I'm just giving you permission to ride it whenever you want and use it however you see fit. Happy now?'  
John just smiled and shook his head. 'Sure.'  
They stood there for a couple of moments longer just smiling at each other. John had no idea why he was so happy to see Holmes again, but now that the air had been cleared between them it felt as if a breath he had been holding for the last three weeks had finally been released.  
His eyes drifted to the bandage on Holmes arm again. He had to ask: 'are you hurt, sir?'  
Holmes looked confused for a second until he realized what John was talking about.  
'Oh this', he said, 'it's nothing. I've had worse.'  
'I could take a look at it if you want to', John ventured. Not quite sure where all this sudden bravery was coming from, 'I've had medical training in the army.'  
Holmes looked almost shocked now and for a moment John feared he had said the wrong thing, but then the look on Holmes face turned into something John had never seen there before. Something soft and almost fragile and gone before he could put a proper name to it and Holmes replied: 'if you would be so kind.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally had some time to write on this again.  
> Introducing Finn. There will be more of him so I really hope you guys like him. I like him.  
> Also: someone was kind enough to point out where I made a bit of a snafu where it comes to terminology in the previous chapters. Oopsie. I'm planning on going back when I have more time and fixing it.  
> Rest assured: It's nothing major that'll interfere with the plot.


	7. A Gift Horse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both Sherlock and John have things to think about. Are there hidden agendas at play?

As Sherlock Holmes was sitting at his desk in his private quarters he pulled the blanket he had draped over his shoulders closer around him. The fire had not been lit in his room today and so, yet again, he found himself shivering from cold. It seemed that none of the household members had been expecting him to return home so soon. He briefly contemplated calling for one of the maids to come and get the fire going, but that would take time and he had work to do. Absentmindedly he waved one of his hands in the direction of the fire and uttered some words. Briefly some small sparks could be seen as they formed around his fingertips, but the fire remained non-existent and the room remained cold.   
Sherlock sighed. That particular spell never seemed to work for him. He had no idea how Finn did it.   
He sighed again. Slightly louder this time. He hated not being able to figure something out.   
In front of him a large map was splayed out on the desk, but every time he tried to focus on it he found his mind wandering to the last conversation he and Finn had had: 

'So you've got an army doctor working for you now?' Finn had asked. Of course he had figured it out. He always did. That was the thing with Elves. Because of their long lifespans they had the patience to wait you out.   
'Ex-army doctor', Sherlock had replied curtly.   
'Still, could be handy to have on your side.'   
Sherlock said nothing. From the corner of his eyes he could see Finn's smile widen as they made their way through the field back to the campfire. They never seemed to be able to return exactly where they had left. They did however always seem to return in the dead of night.  
'Handy in a fight and he can patch you up when you get hurt.'  
'Leave it, Finn.' Sherlock knew the attempt was pointless. Finn would most decidedly not leave the matter be.   
'Have you tried talking to him?'  
'No.'   
Sherlock didn't think it was possible, but Finn's smile got even bigger. 'I feel there's a “yes” in there somewhere', he said.   
Sherlock rolled his eyes and made a point of looking anywhere but at Finn.   
'He told me to piss off'   
'Doesn't everybody?'  
'Not funny, Finn.'  
Finn was unperturbed. 'I think you should try again.'   
'Why on earth should I do that?' Sherlock tried sounding flippant and failed miserably.   
'Because when you get hurt....again, it would be nice to not have to drag your arse 20 miles to the nearest doctor.'  
Sherlock continued staring dead ahead. His lips tightly pursed together.  
'And because he interests you.'  
Sherlock's lips parted and for a couple of seconds his breath could be seen forming a small white cloud in the blackness that surrounded them.   
'I'm right, aren't I?' Finn continued.  
'I'll try again when I return,' Sherlock said, not really answering Finn's question, but he knew it was all the answer Finn needed. 

And Finn had been right. About everything.   
It would be handy to have John Watson on his side. If he had not been there that first night they had met, Sherlock would no doubt have ended up spending the night passed out on the stable floor. Most likely freezing to death in the process.   
It seemed that, even when confronted with a strange man appearing in the dead of night covered in blood, Watson had been able to keep a clear mind and had acted accordingly. No doubt a result of his military background, but Sherlock had been rather impressed all the same.   
Watson was interesting. Finn had been right about that too.   
Not just because he was able to think straight in a stressful situation, but also because of something else. Something undefinable. Something Sherlock could not quite put his finger on. Watson stood out from the rest of the household members like a cool drink on a hot summers day.   
He couldn't seem to be able to figure him out and Sherlock usually hated not being able to figure something out. So he had observed Watson closely in an attempt to find out what made him so singular, but everything he had been able to learn about the man had just added to the enigma.   
There was his left leg for instance. As far as Sherlock could tell there was nothing physically wrong with it, but Watson could be seen limping at the most random of times. Sometimes he didn't even seem to be aware that he was doing it. To the casual observer it might give off the impression that Watson was weak, but Sherlock knew better. This same man had single-handedly carried Sherlock up a small rickety staircase. One muscular arm slung tightly around his waist. Supporting both of their weight. Watson's gait had been steady and unfaltering. His body language oozing confidence.   
Most of the time though, Watson did his very best to be as unassuming as he possibly could. Sherlock hardly ever saw him around the other staff members and when there was something even remotely exciting going on Watson kept himself far from it. Only when excitement literally fell into his lap did he act upon it. Sherlock had no idea why the man did his very best to seem so invisible. In those few moments in the dark where Watson had looked him over for wounds oh so gently, had washed him down with a steady hand and had carried him to bed with an unwavering strength and determination he had seemed more like himself, more in his element and more at ease than at any other moment where Sherlock had observed him since. 

And then there had been the incident at the party.

Sherlock's thoughts drifted from his conversation with Finn to the events of that night. John Watson being the link connecting both events.   
On that particular night, after a couple of hours of, he shuddered at the mere thought of the word, “mingling” he had had about as much socializing as he could take without losing his sanity completely.   
Fairly confident that his stepmother was too busy trying to convince some lord or other that her two daughters were, in fact, marriage material as said daughters hid behind her as they smiled sheepishly, he had slunk away to a corner of the room and had used a spell on himself.   
He wasn't technically supposed to use any spells on this side of the mist, but he was pretty sure that tonight sort of counted as an emergency. He knew his stepmother well enough by now. If she failed to set her daughters up with anyone, which would undoubtedly be the case, both girls were as bland and uninteresting as they came; a result of their mothers strict upbringing no doubt, she would redirect her attention to him. As far as his stepmother was concerned a ball was not a complete success unless someone got engaged.   
So he had used a version of Scot's Veil of Disappearance and had made himself invisible to everyone around him.  
Everyone, except for John Watson as it turned out.   
He had felt Watson's gaze on him before he had actually seen him. It had started as a small tingle running up his spine making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end and had ended with a warmth spreading all through his chest and ending just behind his eyes.  
At first he had thought someone was messing with his spell, but on close inspection the spell was still perfectly in place, the guests were still perfectly oblivious to his presence and he was unable to detect any magical creatures in close proximity.   
And then his eyes had met Watson's all the way across the room. Two eyes the colour of a stormy sea that actually saw him. Despite the distance between them and despite the spell that, Sherlock checked again, was still definitely in place.   
It was then that, just for a second, his vision temporarily went completely white. As if he had been struck by a flash of lightning.   
It had been amazing, exhilarating, exciting. The first time he had felt alive in a very long time and in a moment of sheer giddiness he had raised his glass at Watson.   
And Watson had fled. 

So Finn had been right. Watson interested him.   
Interested him so much, in fact, that he had followed after him as he fled back to the stables.   
And there he had found some poor excuse for a human being pressed against him. Defiling Watson's uniqueness with his vile and mundane lust based on nothing more than outward appearance. Of course Watson was handsome. You'd have to be blind not to notice. With his well built and compact frame, thanks to the army no doubt. His sandy blond hair that framed his face just right, the color a nice contrast with his gray-blue eyes, reminding Sherlock of an oasis in the desert. But to judge a man by his outward appearance alone was one of the gravest mistake a person could make. Sherlock himself had found this out the hard way. But he very much doubted the nobleman who had been in the process of molesting Watson saw any of the things that Sherlock saw in him.   
How he was built up out of all these beautiful contradictions and mysteries and was oh so much more than he appeared to be. And Sherlock had kind of lost it a little.   
And Watson had surprised him once again. Instead of thanking Sherlock for his help in the matter he had gotten mad. Now reminding Sherlock of a storm brewing over sea. The strength of Watson's character at war with the current weakness of his body. And Sherlock had been at a total loss of what to do and so he had left. He had fled to the mist as he always did when he was at a loss. The mist helped him forget. Usually. This time around however he had found it impossible to dispel the thought of Watson from his mind completely and so, the mist unable to soothe his mind, he had returned back home much sooner than was his wont. Determined to make an ally out of Watson this time around.   
But how did one make an ally? Or a friend for that matter?  
Sherlock had had no idea. He didn't do friends. Well...he had Finn, but Finn had sort of happened to him.   
And so he had done what he thought people did in these kinds of situations. He had been kind and he had apologized and to his surprise Watson had reacted positively. Watson had apologized in return and had actually smiled at him.  
And it was at this point, Sherlock feared, that he had lost himself in the brightness of Watson's smile just a little bit, because he had gotten a bit overzealous and had tried to give Watson a horse.   
The horse had probably been a bit too much.   
In hindsight the horse had definitely been too much.  
And, rightfully so, Watson had refused to accept it.   
But Watson's smile had stayed. As if Sherlock himself had been something special and worthwhile too. And he had been more than a bit flattered. And then Watson had offered to take care of his wounds once again and his touch had been soft and gentle and as he carefully unwound the bandage that Finn had haphazardly draped around his arm Sherlock had suddenly found himself at a complete loss for words, but all the more determined to find out everything he could about John Watson. 

Sherlock was suddenly jolted from his reverie when a gust of cold wind coming in through a small crack between the window-frame and the wall made him shiver once again. It was only then that he noticed his blanket had slipped from his shoulders and had landed on the floor by his feet.   
He rubbed his hands together and blew hot breath in the space between them as he tried once again to concentrate on the map in front of him.   
It was of no use.   
By now the cold had made a home out of his bones. So, in the end, Sherlock just gave up on getting any work done that day as he folded up his map and went to look for a maid to light the fire in his room. 

***************************************************************************************

John shifted uncomfortably in his chair in Mrs. Hudson's office. That morning during breakfast she had asked him to join her here later in the day to discuss a private matter. Her tone had been hushed and a stern inscrutable look had been on her face.  
John hoped to god he wasn't in trouble.   
Mrs. Hudson herself was currently in the process of making tea. Surely things couldn't be all that bad if there was tea....could they?   
When Mrs. Hudson finally finished with the tea she put down a cup in front of John and placed one for herself in front of the chair at the opposite side of the desk.   
'Oh, come now John, don't look so worried', she said smiling as she sat down and noticed the look on his face, 'I'm not going to eat you. Drink your tea.'  
John gave her a weak and slightly nervous smile as he lifted the cup to his lips and sipped. Burning his tongue in the process as he realized just a bit too late that the tea was still a bit too hot to drink.   
He tried his best not to wince. 'I was just curious', he said, 'why it was you called me here. I haven't done anything wrong, have I?'  
Mrs. Hudson laughed, 'is that why you look as nervous as a sinner in church? Oh heavens no. Nothing like that, John. I just wanted to ask you what's going on between you and Mary.'  
Caught off guard by the direction their conversation had suddenly taken John gave her a puzzled look.  
Seeing his reaction Mrs. Hudson's smile faltered. Her expression now filled with sympathy and concern. 'Was I not supposed to ask?', she continued, 'it's just that the two of you have been practically joined at the hip up till very recently. Now I hardly see you together anymore and Mary seems to smile a lot less than she used to.'  
John gently placed his cup back on the table. Buying him a couple more seconds of time to think about what he was willing to tell Mrs. Hudson on the matter.   
Ever since their New Years kiss he hadn't seen a whole lot of Mary. It seemed that, despite her promise to talk things over when they were both sober, she was doing her very best to avoid him. And in the rare moments they were together their conversations never went further than exchanging peasantries and making small talk.   
'We had a bit of a falling out', was what he ended up saying.  
'Oh, that's too bad', Mrs. Hudson said as she clasped her hands in front of her chest, 'you know, she's been sweet on you from the moment she saw you.'  
John felt his cheeks flush. Mary had been a good friend, but the more he thought about their interactions the more he was starting to fear he had been leading her on without realizing it. He just always had a hard time figuring out how people felt about him. Even with James it had taken him an exceptionally long time to fully see what was going on. Not wanting his thoughts to dwell on James once again with Mrs. Hudson present he quickly took another sip of his tea. Whether it had cooled down enough by now was anybody's guess. With his tongue still numb from the previous burn he could barely tell if there was any taste to it at all.   
'Mary and I were just friends, Mrs. Hudson', he said. Hoping she would not misinterpret the sudden rush of colour to his cheeks.   
'Well, it's not really my business at all, I know', Mrs. Hudson continued, 'you young people always lead such unnecessarily complicated lives, but I do want all the members of the household to get along. So will you at least try and talk to her? For me?' Here she batted her eyes at him and gave him the best impression of a sweet, little old lady John had ever seen. It was quite impressive.   
John just shook his head and smiled. 'Anything for you Mrs. Hudson.'  
'Good man!', she said as her face lit up.   
John couldn't help but laugh as she beamed at him. 'I'm just relieved I'm not in trouble' he said.   
'The day is still young', Mrs. Hudson said as she gave him an unexpected wink making John choke on his tea. 

**************************************************************************************

Mrs. Hudson had been right. He should talk to Mary as soon as he had a chance. Clear the air between them. After all, he had been the one that had initiated the kiss. Once again he felt his face burn with shame. What had he been thinking? Clearly he hadn't been thinking. Mary deserved better than this. He loved her, but he could never love her the way she wanted him to. And the reason why....he couldn't tell her. Men like him.....they weren't exactly accepted in society. When he had been together with James they always had to be so very, very careful. Stolen, hushed moments in dark corners. Not at all what love was supposed to be, but all they had been able to get all the same. 

For some unknown reason the vision of James in his head slowly transformed into the form of Master Holmes.   
John couldn't help but smile again. How relieved he had been to see the master of the house return.  
So relieved in fact that he had completely forgotten about the situation with Mary. That was partially why Mrs. Hudson had been able to catch him so off guard.   
Any excitement in his life seemed to automatically be linked to Holmes these days.   
Holmes who seemed to be both amazing, terrifying and inscrutable at the same time.   
Holmes who had tried to give him..... a horse....John still had no idea what that had all been about. On their last meeting Holmes had been downright, for lack of a better word, pleasant. Just about the opposite of the picture every single household member had painted of him. Even Mrs. Hudson, who always saw the good in everyone had called him “on some occasions perhaps a bit too strict”. John smiled to himself. Good old Mrs. Hudson. He really hoped he'd see more of Holmes this time around before he left again. And he would definitely have a talk with Mary the very next time he'd see her. But first: he had to go and look after a certain horse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is anybody still reading this?   
> If you are: thank you. I have every intention of completing this story. Updates might not always be very regular.


	8. Tomorrow is another day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finally talks to Mary and starts seeing more and more of Holmes.

It was a moderately cold first day of February when John found Mary alone in the kitchen.  
King winter still reigned supreme, but the worst of it seemed to be behind them.  
Since the new year had rolled around there had been no more heavy snow storms and the most they'd gotten was a slight dusting. However, what little had fallen had, at this point, all melted away again and without the white of the snow to cheer it up the world just seemed gray and sombre.  
John didn't mind too much. His shoulder and leg always fared better when the temperature rose.  
At the moment Mary was busy kneading dough. No doubt intended for one of Mrs. Hudson's famous pies. From the looks of the ball in her hands she had not been at it long as it was still too soft to hold a shape and stuck to her fingers every time they made contact with it.  
So engrossed in her task was she that she did not even hear him come in until he coughed politely.  
She jumped at the sound, her face slightly flushed from the work and one lock of her blond hair swung in a neat ringlet in front of her face when she lifted her head. With her hands occupied elsewhere she tried blowing it away, but it bounced right back.  
'Oh, hello John', she said and gave him an apologetic smile as she continued: 'I'm pretty busy today, sorry.'  
'That's fine', John replied, 'I don't need much of your time. I just want to talk to you.'  
She cast her face down again and passed the dough from her right hand to her left, 'What about?'. She tried to keep her tone of voice light, but John could hear the tension underneath.  
John cleared his throat. Even after thinking it over in his head for the last couple of days he still wasn't too sure about how he wanted to broach the subject. But he knew he had to. The tension between him and Mary had been steadily rising and by now it had become an almost visible force. He watched Mary's fingers as they stretched out the dough then pushed it back together only to stretch it out again. It was hypnotizing.  
'I wanted to talk to you about New Years eve......about our kiss.'  
Mary's hands stopped. She remained silent. Her gaze firmly fixed downward. Her fingers gripping tighter into the soft dough.  
John cleared his throat again. 'I think I owe you some kind of explanation', he said.  
Mary sighed and her shoulders sagged, 'it's fine, John. Just leave it.'  
'If it's fine then why have you been avoiding me ever since?'  
This time Mary did look at him: 'because of what I saw in your eyes right afterwards, John.'  
'My eyes?'  
'yes......you looked....disgusted.' She cast her face down again. Tears were forming in her eyes, but with her hands still covered in dough she was unable to wipe them off and so they remained there, silently accusing John of the hurt he had caused to his best friend.  
'Mary...', he tried, but she shook her head as soon as he started talking. After a few moments of silence he tried again. His voice a bit softer this time:  
'Mary.... I never meant to hurt you. If you saw disgust on my face I assure you it was not directed at you, but at myself. I should not have kissed you...... I do love you! Deeply so, but I love you like a brother loves his sister. You were and still are my best friend. I don't want to lose that over a drunken kiss. I don't want to lose you'  
A smile formed on Mary's lips, but it was a tight, bitter thing and John didn't like seeing it there one bit.  
'Then why did you kiss me?' she asked as her hands once again took up their labor. The dough, getting firmer now, not sticking to her fingers as much.  
John remained quiet for a moment. On the one hand he didn't want to hurt Mary even more than she already had been, but on the other hand he knew he owed her the truth. Or at least part of it:  
'Because I was lonely.' is what he finally said.  
Mary's bitter smile widened. Her lips pressed so tightly together that the blood drained from them.  
'That's a crap excuse', she responded.  
'Yes.....yes, it is. You deserve so much better than me.'  
Mary huffed out a laugh. 'I know.'  
'I'm sorry, Mary.'  
A few moments of silence passed again before she gave her reply. Her voice soft and bearing a hint of sadness. 'I know.'  
'Will you ever be able to forgive me?'  
Once again there was a smile on Mary's face as she put the dough, now neatly rolled into a ball, to the side, but this time the smile was softer. More honest, 'Maybe, in time', she said.  
Not really knowing what else to say John slowly moved towards her and gently folded his arms around her. Encompassing Mary's smaller form in a tight hug. She went stiff at first. Much as she had done when John had kissed her, but all too soon she melted into him. Resting her forehead on his chest. Her hands crossed behind his back, grabbing onto his jacket. No doubt leaving behind a trail of flower and dough, but John didn't really care.  
They stood like this for quite some time. Neither of them speaking. It was Mary who finally broke the silence, her voice slightly muffled as she still had her face buried in Johns chest.  
'Do you think you'll ever be able to learn to love me.....like that.... like I love you?'  
It was the question John had dreaded the most. Once again he felt like he owed her the truth, but he also knew the truth would hurt her more than anything he had done to her before. And so he chose the cowards way out and lied. Later he would lie awake at night wondering if, by sparing her feelings, he had actually done the right thing or not.  
'Maybe....in time', he lied and he felt the last of the tension leave Mary's body.  
'I have time', she said. Her voice a barely audible whisper. 'I have time.'

********************************************************************************************

From that point on things went better between them as they slowly found their way back to their old routines. Mary started visiting him again in the stables whenever she had some time to herself and they would talk about everything and nothing just as they always had done. Mary's smile also returned, but on some occasions, when she thought John wasn't looking, it bore a distinct hint of sad wistfulness. It made John's heart ache every time he caught a glimpse of it, because he knew he would never be able to give her what she wanted and more than once it made him wish he had told her the truth when she had asked for it. 

Apart from Mary there was another visitor John was starting to see more and more of in the stables and that visitor was Sherlock Holmes.  
He would appear at the stables at the most random of times. John hardly ever actually saw him come in. Usually, all of a sudden, he was just...there.  
John would turn around and there he'd be: leaning against a post, brushing down his horse or just sitting in a corner. His eyes seemingly glowing with blue light in the dusky room firmly fixed on John. It gave him chills every time.  
Whenever John suddenly found him like that he would give a friendly greeting and Holmes would smile at him. On some occasions they'd even exchange some smalltalk.  
On one particular early morning John even physically bumped into him as he walked into one of the horse's stalls just as Holmes was walking out.  
'Jesus Christ!' John exclaimed. The shock of the encounter temporarily making him forget his place and who he was talking to.  
'Most people call me Holmes.....or sir', the reply. Holmes' eyes once again alight as a teasing smile played on his lips.  
John couldn't help but smile as well as he cast his eyes down. Feeling slightly embarrassed under Holmes radiant stare.  
'I'm sorry......sir', he replied, 'I wasn't expecting to find you......here', he looked at the stall behind him pointedly, 'What were you doing here?'  
'Hiding.'  
'Hiding?..... From what, sir?'  
Holmes cast his eyes to the ceiling as he let out an exaggerated sigh: 'the world', he said. That smile never fully leaving his face.  
John shook his head. His own smile widening in return. He never could stop himself from smiling whenever Holmes was around. 'That's an awful lot to be hiding from', he said.  
Holmes now looked him straight in the eyes and, involuntarily, John took a step back.  
'I'm terribly good at it', Holmes replied. His voice deeper than it had ever been, doing strange things to John's insides.  
'I know', John replied after swallowing past a sudden lump in his throat, 'I'll leave you be.'  
'Oh, no need, Watson', suddenly Holmes' tone of voice was cheery again and John felt a little bit more comfortable.  
'Is there anything I can do for you, sir?', he asked. Still unsure why Holmes was here....and why he had been coming to the stables quite so often lately. Not that he minded as much. Holmes was still one of the most interesting people he had ever met and his sporadic appearances tended to brighten John's otherwise ordinary and monotone day to day life.  
Once again Holmes gave an exaggerated sigh as he replied: 'you could make it a bit warmer. It's freezing. Cold weather doesn't suit me.'  
John actually had to suppress a laugh at this. To him Holmes seemed to be made for cold weather. With his pale complexion and, on times, icy-blue eyes underneath his elegant black curls he always seemed like some fairytale prince of winter to John. However, every time he had seen him this past month, even though Holmes was always dressed in the thickest winter clothes John had ever seen and usually carried an extra blanket around his shoulders he always complained to John about the cold weather. Today was apparently no exception.  
'I could', John replied, 'but it's going to take me a couple of months.'  
Holmes' smile widened at Johns teasing reply. 'Figures', he said, 'can I ask you for another favor then?'  
Once again Holmes' gaze was fixed on John and he felt as if refusing wasn't really an option. Not that he wanted to. Holmes had never straight out asked him for something before. He was quite curious to see where this was going. So he nodded and said: 'of course, sir.'  
Holmes seemed rather pleased with this reply as he continued: 'Splendid! Tomorrow morning I have to make a trip for my.....line of work', the last part of the sentence was said with some hesitation. John realized he still didn't know what Holmes' line of work actually was. Nobody seemed to know. He had asked around. He had gotten all kinds of answers ranging from “nothing, the boy just squanders his fathers money and good name” to “gambler” and “assassin”. John really didn't believe any of these were true and he really hoped the last one in particular wasn't true.  
'On this particular trip', Holmes continued, 'I am in need of an assistant and I was wondering if you would care to join me. You can take the gray horse of course.'  
John couldn't believe what he was hearing. A chance to find out more about the elusive master of the house?  
'Yes...of course...I...' he stammered. He had wanted to ask “why me?”, but apparently that was all the answer Holmes needed. His smile widened once again as his eyes briefly changed color as he said:  
'I'll come and retrieve you first thing in the morning.'  
And with that Holmes was gone again. And this time John wasn't sure whether he'd actually seen him leave. 

******************************************************************************************

Watson had proved to be even more interesting than Sherlock Holmes could ever have imagined.  
Over the past few weeks he had tested him on several different occasions. All of them under slightly different circumstances of course. To see whether the events of the ball had just been a strange fluke.  
They had decidedly not been.  
He had tried every iteration of a disappearing spell he could think of, but time and time again Watson had still been able to see him. On some occasions it had taken him significantly longer than on others, but every time he had found him eventually.  
On his last attempt for example he had even been able to walk all along the stable area and even into one of the stalls before Watson had bumped into him. Sherlock suspected some unknown sense he wasn't even aware of had drawn him to his location since the stall he had been hiding in had been completely empty and there had been no valid reason for Watson to open it.  
Interesting.  
Very interesting.  
Sherlock Holmes just couldn't seem to be able to figure John Watson out and for once in his life he was genuinely enjoying not being able to figure something out.  
There was just something about Watson that drew Sherlock to him like a moth to a flame and Sherlock found himself thinking of John Watson more and more these days.  
So he had come up with an even better plan.  
A plan that would really test the boundaries of Watson's, for lack of a better word, “powers”.  
But what if Watson was able to see something tomorrow? What then?  
He had no idea what he would say to him. How he would explain it.  
But maybe Finn was right. It would be nice to have an ally in all of this. To have someone he could confide in that wasn't Finn. Someone also human. Someone a bit more like him.  
Up till now he had only exchanged some small talk with John Watson. Remarks on the weather and the like. Sherlock himself had bemoaned the cold weather on several occasions and Watson had listened and smiled at him. Sherlock usually hated talking to other people. Especially about something as mundane as the weather.  
But John Watson seemed to make everything more interesting. Around him Sherlock just felt more alive. Whenever John Watson looked at him, a relaxed smile on his face as soft laughter lines formed around his eyes and his short blond hair was sticking out in odd angles, because he'd been busy moving hay all day Sherlock felt as if he could talk to him about the weather all day and he'd never get bored of it.  
It was a strange feeling. Something he had never really felt before and he would rather die than tell Finn anything about this.  
Finn would probably figure it out on his own anyway. Damn him.  
But for now Sherlock had more important things to think about than Finn. As, at the moment, he was sitting in his rooms again, a fire roaring in the fireplace, a maid had stealthily lit it while he was out, a blanket draped over his shoulders and a map on the desk in front of him. Right now he needed to decide where he wanted to take John tomorrow.  
Tomorrow.  
Tomorrow would be very interesting indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had some time off and I have now planned out the story up until chapter 15.  
> Of course I already knew where it was going and how it's going to end, but I've started deviding the events in neat little chapters now. There will be more than 15 chapters though. So stick around!  
> As always: many thanks to anyone reading this still. You're the best. All of you.


	9. A Misty Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens.....  
> Holmes and Watson set out on a very early morning trip. What will they find and can either really trust the other?

John was having trouble falling asleep.   
In his mind the events of the day kept repeating every time he closed his eyes and so he was left tossing and turning in his small bed as the room darkened around him.   
Although, admittedly, a part of him was looking forward to finding out more about Holmes there was also a part of him that questioned his masters motives.   
Once again Holmes' actions had been strange and out of character. He very much doubted he had been asked to come along just because Holmes needed an “assistant”.   
He had never needed an assistant before. The man was known for being secretive and always acting alone. Why, all of a sudden, would he have need of one now? And why John? And why had he given him so little information about what he was actually expected to do tomorrow?  
John furrowed his brow as he once again rolled over to his other side. The room around him had gone completely dark by now. He guessed it must be well after midnight.   
He should really try and sleep at least. He needed his wits about him come morning. Keep a close eye on Holmes and try and figure out some part of the mystery that surrounded him.   
John rubbed his eyes with his fingers and for a moment the action caused him to see small stars in the pitch black that surrounded him.   
He groaned as he rolled over on his back, staring up at the ceiling hidden from view somewhere in the night all around him hoping that, if he mulled it over long enough, some answers would come to him. They did not. It was going to be a long night. 

John eventually did fall asleep. After hours and hours of restless and frustrated turning his eyes finally closed of their own accord and sleep overtook him.   
The relief of restful sleep was however not given to him as once again he slipped into his familiar nightmare.   
However, this time the vision his mind conjured up was slightly different. He still found himself standing in an empty field, but the field around him could barely be seen as a thick gray mist surrounded him on all sides. Once again he screamed, but the sound was muffled up by the thick fog. Swallowing up his words as soon as they left his mouth as if it was alive somehow. Reaching for him with wispy, ghost-like fingers. Pulling the words from his lips and gobbling them up hungrily, leaving him with nothing but silence and a cold empty feeling.   
From within the gray wall around him John could hear sounds. The sounds of wings beating together. Of course the birds would be there, but they were hiding within the mist, just out of sight, waiting to strike and tear him to pieces once again. The sound of beating wings was getting ever closer now and the wall of fog surrounding him was turning into dark, black clouds. In his dream John closed his eyes, braced himself and waited. Ready to accept the fate he knew would inevitably come.  
Suddenly his eyes snapped open again.   
He could feel a strange pressure on his right wrist. Almost as if...  
As he looked down he could see a hand firmly gripping his arm and as his gaze followed the delicate fingers upwards along a pale and yet muscular arm his eyes met those of Master Holmes. A wild and panicked look on his face as his curls stuck to his neck and face, wet with mist.   
'Watson', he said. His voice barely audible as the mist tried to swallow him up too.   
'Watson' he said again. Slightly louder this time as his hand started pulling John along.   
In his dream all John could do was follow him. Into the mist. Into the unknown. Hoping he would lead them somewhere safe. The mist had completely surrounded them now and John could no longer see Holmes. The only indication that he was still there was the pressure of his fingers on Johns wrist. A somehow reassuring feeling that stopped him from screaming and falling apart as Holmes pulled him along ever faster and faster.   
And he went faster still. John wanted to tell him to wait. That he couldn't keep up. But every time he opened his mouth the mist swooped in with it's ghostly fingers to steal the air from his lungs and all too soon he couldn't run anymore and he felt Holmes' fingers slowly slipping from his wrist as he disappeared ahead of him and John sank to his knees. Behind him he could hear the sound of flapping wings getting closer and closer and ahead of him he could still faintly hear Holmes' voice as he shouted for him to follow:   
'Watson!' 

'Watson!'   
Johns eyes shot open.   
To his relief he found himself in his bed again in his own bedroom. The small room was still dark around him.   
'Watson!'  
There were noises coming from downstairs and a voice....  
'Watson!'  
Master Holmes had said “first thing in the morning”, hadn't he? Confused, John took in the darkness around him. It was decidedly not morning yet.   
'Watsoooon!', Holmes' tone of voice more than suggested that he was gradually losing his patience.   
'Coming, sir!' John shouted back as he felt around in the darkness blindly to try and find where he had left his candle and matches.   
After a couple of failed attempts where he knocked over a chair, a bucket and some kind of pot he managed to locate his candle and finally got it lit.   
He dressed as fast as he could, his head still foggy with sleep, and made his way down the small staircase to find Holmes' standing there with an impatient look on his face. He wore his riding gear and dark, hooded cloak again and his black horse stood by his side, already saddled up. Holmes' arms were crossed in front of his chest as he looked John over. No doubt he looked more than a little disheveled. Especially compared to Holmes who, once again, reminded John of some kind of otherworldly royalty.   
'I did tell you I would come and collect you, didn't I?', Holmes tone of voice was more than a little annoyed.   
'I was under the assumption that your lordship meant in the morning', John replied as he shook his head in an attempt to try and wake himself up at least a little bit. Maybe he was still dreaming and this was all some kind of new nightmare.   
'I meant we need to get there by morning'.   
'Oh...' was all John was able to reply as slowly his brain was trying to switch on, 'I must have misunderstood.'  
'Well, you're up now at least. I've been shouting for so long I'm frankly surprised you're the only household member I've managed to wake', Holmes continued, only slightly less annoyed, 'go and get your horse and we'll leave immediately.'   
John rubbed his face, 'Yes, sir.'  
As he turned himself around towards the stalls and tried to remember what a horse actually looked like he felt Holmes' eyes still on his back. For a second he also thought he could feel Holmes smiling at him, but you couldn't feel a smile now could you. John yawned as he rolled his shoulders and tried to stretch the muscles in his back in an attempt to wake them up too.   
Today would be very interesting indeed. 

****************************************************************************************

They rode together side by side in silence for a while. Holmes on his black horse and John on the gray one. As night was slowly lifting from the land around them a light fog could be seen clinging to the fields surrounding them.   
It reminded John of his dream of last night and he shivered as he pulled his jacket closer around him.   
'Are you cold?' Holmes asked.   
'It's just early', John replied as he tried to smile apologetically.  
'I would have thought you'd had your fair share of early mornings when you were in the army.' Holmes said, lifting one of his eyebrows, his hair slowly getting damp as morning dew stuck to his curls. The whole image reminded John of his horrid dream even more and he shivered once again.   
'I guess I've been away too long.'  
'Oh come now Watson. What has it been? A little bit over a year? I doubt you'd forget that easily.'  
John turned his face towards Holmes now. His mouth slightly opened in disbelief: 'how could you possibly know how long I've been away from the army?'  
Holmes stared ahead, decidedly avoiding John's gaze: 'it was fairly obvious.' the mumbled reply.   
'Obvious?'   
'The wear on your jacket suggest that it has been well used suggesting you've been in the army for quite some time. Some parts have been patched up. Patched up with older army jackets. Material you could have only come by when you were still serving in the army. Looking at the stitches on the last patches you've put on it couldn't have been more than say....oh....a year and a half ago at most since you've made them', here Holmes quickly glanced at him before going back to staring at the road ahead of them, 'elementary really.'  
John was silent for a while, his mouth still opened in disbelief as Holmes cleared his throat and peered into the oncoming dawn surrounding them now, his breath forming small clouds in the early morning air.   
'You got all that from a couple of stitches on my jacket?'  
Holmes just nodded curtly. Still avoiding his eyes.   
'How did you even know I was in the army. Earlier....when we met....if you don't mind me asking sir?'  
Holmes cleared his throat again before answering: 'fairly simple too really. The way you stood when you were waiting for me to reply during our...conversation. Like a soldier standing to attention waiting for a command from his superior. Force of habit that all military men develop when they've been in the armed forces for long enough.'  
'Wow.....' was all John could say.   
'Also', Holmes continued, 'I might have seen your army jacket in your bedroom when I woke up there.' He looked slightly embarrassed now. John found it rather charming.  
For the next couple of moments all that could be heard was the sound of their horses hooves on the damp ground as they made their way to whatever their destination was and the chittering of the first birds to wake up that day. But then John barked out a laugh and, at the sound of it, Holmes peered at him from the corners of his eyes.  
'That was amazing,' John said. An incredulous smile on his face.   
'You think so?', Holmes was still peering at him from the corners of his eyes and John wondered why he would seem so bashful all of a sudden.   
'Definitely. Quite extraordinary'   
Holmes righted himself a bit more in his saddle now, seemingly gaining a bit more confidence as he cleared his throat for a third time.  
'Well...that's not what people usually say.'  
'What do they usually say?'  
'Piss off'  
John barked out a laugh again at the suddenly crude words coming from this nobleman's mouth.   
'I have told you that too though', he ventured. Keeping his tone of voice light and soft. In that moment Holmes reminded him of a nervous horse. Easily spooked. Tension in his body. A creature to handle with care.   
The beginnings of smile were slowly forming on Holmes lips now as he too recalled that particular memory.  
'I would like to apologize for that again, sir', John continued.   
Finally Holmes turned his face towards him and John felt a strange tingling in his chest as suddenly his eyes seemed to glow with the faint blue light he had seen there on several earlier occasions. A lopsided grin was on Holmes face and John found his own smile widening in return.   
'Just see that it doesn't happen again', Holmes' haughty reply, but there was a definite teasing tone underneath.   
'I will do my very best, sir.'  
Holmes actually chuckled at this.   
'Come Watson', he said, now seated firmly upright in his saddle. Once again looking like the graceful lord that he was and as his eyes seemed to glow even brighter, boring into Johns, John felt a warm flush travel up the back of his neck. 'Let us try for a bit more speed', Holmes continued, 'I'm sure a bit more action will warm us up in no time.'   
And with that he spurred on his horse and galloped away.  
Quickly John followed, but he found he already wasn't quite so cold anymore. 

*************************************************************************************

The rest of their journey was pretty uneventful. The sun had started to rise further, as it had done on countless mornings prior and would probably keep doing so indefinitely and by doing so it had cast a golden light that reflected quite beautifully off of Holmes dark, dew soaked, curls. John was mesmerized. Once again he was reminded of a fairy prince when he looked at his lord and master and he had half a mind of telling him so now that the atmosphere between them felt so amicable and relaxed, but in the end he decided to keep his thoughts to himself.   
They talked a bit more as they rode on. Keeping their conversational topics light. Just something to pass the time. Enjoying each others company. And, John realized, he indeed found Holmes' company enjoyable. Very much so. Removed from the household and its clear hierarchy they felt more like equals or comrades than anything else and it made it very easy to talk to Holmes. Once again he was reminded of his army days. How his friendship with James had started. Friendly conversation to pass the time on their long marches. And over time they both had realized that they had felt more at ease with each other than they had felt with anyone else before. It had been nice. It had felt like coming home. Safe....John shook his head. Thoughts of James seemed to pop up unbidden more and more in his mind these days. He had no use for them now.   
To distract his mind from these unwanted thoughts he tried asking Holmes where it was they were going exactly and what was expected of him, but Holmes just smiled at him and told him he'd see when they got there.   
And if John was being completely honest with himself he had to admit he quite liked the promise of something unknown. An adventure. Some danger maybe. He felt happier than he had been in a long time.....more alive....more like himself.  
He inhaled deeply and breathed in the cool morning air and just as he was about to ask how much further they still had to go Holmes reined in his horse, bringing it to a halt, and, quite matter of factly, said: 'we're here.' 

John looked around. Unsure whether they had actually reached their destination or if Holmes was just messing with him now.   
They still found themselves in the middle of the fields. They were no where near any village or settlement as far as John could see. The only thing out of the ordinary were two piles of bricks that lay a couple of feet away from each other. It seemed that years ago a small brick wall must have been built here, dividing the field into two parts, but it appeared to have been broken down a long time ago. Two piles of moss grown shattered bricks all that remained now.   
Unsure he looked at Holmes, but he had already dismounted and was in the process of tying his horse to a nearby tree. John decided to do the same.   
He had to admit their location was quite beautiful. In the early morning light the grass underneath his feet had a rich green colour and the dew drops that stuck to it glinted like small diamonds. Here and there small white and yellow flowers could be seen and the song of various birds waking up could be heard coming from small clusters of trees that were dotted across the landscape. The mist that had greeted them upon waking was starting to dissipate, but here and there wisps of it still clung to the landscape. Around the remains of the brick wall there seemed to be an unusual large cluster of mist gathered and the stones peaking through it from beneath looked to John like the ruined remains of a castle in the clouds.   
It was all rather serene, but for some reason he felt ill at ease. He felt watched. And even though the sun's rays now shone directly on him he shivered once again.   
'Still cold?'  
John jumped. He had been so lost in thought that he hadn't even noticed Holmes approach him.   
'Why are we here?' John asked. Unsure. The thoughts that had kept him awake last night suddenly returned. Why had Homes brought him here? So far away from any living soul. With no one around to see or hear. Once again he was reminded of how little he knew about the man.   
But Holmes just smiled at him. 'Do you see anything?' he asked. An expectant look on his face.  
John swallowed and looked around him uncertainly. 'I see the field', he ventured.   
'Boring', Holmes' swift reply, 'what else?'  
John wasn't sure what was expected of him, 'the trees?'  
Holmes just rolled his eyes.   
'There's the bricks', John continued.   
Holmes did not reply, but next to him John felt him tense up slightly.   
'There's fog around them', John said tilting his head slightly.   
'What about it?' Holmes reply a gravely whisper in his ear as he now stood so close to his side that he felt the warmth of his body against him.   
John was about to answer him again when he saw it. In the mist around the bricks. Had he really seen anything? He squinted his eyes. He could have sworn he saw something....moving....  
It could have just been some kind of animal. Lord knew what kind of creatures lived way out here. And just as he had almost convinced himself that what he had seen was no more than some kind of small rodent that had made itself a home in the rubble on the field he saw it again....and his blood ran cold and his eyes went wide. There was a hand. Waving at him from the mist. Gesturing him to come closer. But....that was impossible......there wasn't nearly enough mist left at this time of day to hide an entire human being there. And yet....there it was.....within the last shreds of fog a hand kept appearing and disappearing and it was gesturing to him.....to come closer.   
He wondered if Holmes was seeing this too, but from the corner of his eyes he could see that Holmes' gaze was not directed towards the bricks and their little island of fog, but was firmly fixed on him and he stared at him unblinking. As if, maybe, if he stared hard enough he could find himself a way inside Johns head and see with his eyes. See what he was seeing right now.   
Once more the hand dove back inside the mist and when it came out again it was no longer a hand, but a wing....a wing attached to a bird made out of mist......John squinted his eyes again to try and make out what kind of bird it was. And as the bird separated itself from the low island of fog and actually took flight John could identify it quite clearly. It was a magpie. A magpie made of mist and as it passed in front of the sun its rays filtered straight through its ghost-like wings and body and John had to close his eyes to the blinding light. He only closed his eyes for a second, but when he opened them again the bird was gone. And so was the mist.   
'What did you see?' Holmes asked again. His voice still a whisper by Johns side, but to him the sound still seemed much too loud in the quiet that had seemed to have fallen over the field around them.   
John swallowed, trying to regain his voice. 'Nothing', it came out as a croak. He swallowed once more and tried again. 'Nothing.' His voice was slightly less shaky the second time.   
Of course he could tell Holmes what he had seen, but he himself wasn't even sure what it was he had seen. Had it been magic? Some trick of the light? Maybe just the remains of last night's dark dream? Why had Holmes even brought him here...He had not wanted to say. Had he known something strange was going to happen? Had he wanted John to see this...and if so....why? What earthly reason could he have for all this mystery and secrecy? What did any of this have to do with Holmes' line of work? John felt shaken and confused. The fog and image of the bird a little bit too close to his recurring nightmares and he felt he needed time. Time to think all of this over. To come to terms with what he had seen. To figure out what it had meant. And if Holmes was allowed to only divulge information to him whenever he saw fit then, by god, so was he!  
So for a third time he said: 'I saw nothing.'  
Holmes was quiet for a moment, his gaze still firmly fixed on John as John stared of into the distance, avoiding Holmes' eyes, a mirror image of their situation earlier that morning.   
After a couple of moments Holmes seemed to reach a conclusion.   
'We're done here', he said, 'come on Watson, there's nothing else for us here.'  
And with a dramatic flurry of his cloak he turned around and made his way back to his horse and a couple of moments later John made to follow once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usually it takes me a couple of days to write a chapter, but this one only took me one day. It pretty much wrote itself.   
> Also: How many times can I thank people for reading this story? At least one more: thank you all!!!


	10. An Open Door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of their trip to the field Watson might finally get some clarity and Holmes finds himself in trouble.

Sherlock Holmes was running through the halls of his mind palace.  
The fast clicking sound his boot-heels made as they came in contact with the flat stone surface he had imagined there sounded impossibly loud and deceptively real to his ears.  
Of course none of it was.  
Not the countless hallways paved with gray stone tiles, their walls lined with heavy wooden doors, nor the candles held up by silver candlesticks all spaced exactly 10 feet apart along the green wallpapered walls that illuminated his path.  
Nor the thick wallpaper itself with its rich floral pattern - lord knows why he picked that – and certainly not what lay beyond the doors in the rooms he had imagined there. Adding more and more of them as the years went by.  
None of them were actually real.  
At least, not entirely.  
In this part of his mind he stored the memories he did not wish or could not permit himself to forget.  
Real only in the sense that they came to life only in his minds eye and only for him.  
Just a simple memory trick his brother had taught him before he had left, but add just a hint of magic and the possibilities could be endless...  
He often found himself closing his eyes and retreating into this most private part of his psyche when he had a difficult decision to make.  
He'd open and close the heavy wooden doors hoping the ghosts of the past could shed a little bit more light on the situation at hand.  
If he wasn't careful he could lose himself in the seemingly endless rooms and halls with their twists and turns for hours on end.  
Time did not seem to exist here.  
So, why then was he running now?

Faintly, behind him, still far away in the distance another set of heels could be heard as they made contact with the ground.  
The sound lighter than his own footfall.  
Their pacing calm, steady and calculated.  
Sherlock ran faster. Closing and locking doors left and right as he came upon them to keep Her out of those at least. Cursing his own negligence under his breath.  
How often had Finn not warned him?  
“Do not travel when you are emotionally unstable”, he had said.  
“Do not travel unless you can close off your mind and heart completely from all outside influences.”  
He had not listened and now it might cost him dearly.  
He had left a metaphorical window open and now She was in here with him and he was trying to make his way as fast as he could to the one room She definitely could not find. 

The candles on the wall beside him flickered for a second and then went out.  
A cold gust of wind that should not be there grazed the back of his neck.  
The footsteps behind him sounded closer even though they did not seem to have quickened their pace.  
In the dark Sherlock ran faster still.  
She could not find it. 

***************************************************************************************

John Watson could not sleep.  
Even though he was plenty tired and it was well after midnight.  
The day had been an exhausting one. With the outside temperature steadily rising he had taken it upon himself to get the estates orchards ready for the oncoming spring.  
He had been busy pruning and reshaping trees all day long and this had involved a lot of climbing up and down ladders.  
When the sun had finally started to set he was left slightly sunburned, even though it was only early march, and his shoulder and leg had gone from being as painful as they could get to going completely numb.  
Mary, bless her heart, had wrapped warm and wet towels around his shoulder and had scolded him as if he were a child when she noticed he could not even lift his spoon at supper time.  
So he had been sure sleep would descend upon him quickly when he crawled into his bed shortly after.  
He couldn't have been more wrong.  
Even though the night was calm and agreeable and his body and mind had both gone way beyond the point of mere exhaustion; thoughts of the last couple of days plagued him and the sleep he so desperately craved would not come. 

Time and time again his thoughts were transported back to his early morning trip with Holmes to the misty field and the events that had transpired thereafter. 

Their ride back from the field had been silent. Only once more had Holmes asked him if he had seen anything on the field and once more John had denied it. They had not spoken of anything else after that. There had been none of the friendly conversation that had made the trip there so agreeable  
The sound of their horses hooves and the occasional twitter of a bird had been the only things to break the uncomfortable silence they found themselves cloaked in.  
John had been furious.  
The anger he felt rising inside him the main reason why he gripped his reins just a little bit tighter as he gritted his teeth in an attempt to keep in the words that, if they were to somehow find themselves a way past his tightly pursed lips, he would most certainly regret.  
He had felt used. Betrayed.  
It had been obvious to him then that Holmes knew more than he was letting on. Their trip to the field had been nothing more but some kind of strange experiment on him.  
Its nature or purpose, if there even was any, a mystery to all but Holmes himself and he was not speaking. His posture stiff as he stared dead ahead at the road before them. His dark curls still wet with dew as an inscrutable look lay on his face.  
So John had been mad at Holmes for leading him on, of course, but also at himself. He had allowed himself to believe that Holmes had been different. Different from all the others who had held superiority over him in his life. But once again he had been used as bait or God knew what in the plan of some bored gentleman. It had hurt more than he was willing to admit. 

And then there had been the matter of the hand in the mist....and the magpie.  
Lying in his bed now John could still conjure them up in his minds eye quite vividly.  
He was sure that what he had seen had been real and then he had been sure Holmes had either seen it too or had known it was there at least, but however hard he tried he could not come up with a reasonable explanation for these strange images. Even thinking on them now there was something about them that gave him chills.

He drew his blankets closer around him and figured it would not dwell to think on such ominous and ghastly visions so close to the witching hour and turned his thoughts to what had happened about a week later. When Holmes had visited him again. 

After the events of that morning John had tried to steer clear from Holmes as much as possible and Holmes had seemed to be doing the same as he saw very little of the lord of the house for about a week.  
So John was indeed very surprised when, one early Thursday morning, just as he was about to head outside, he once again found Holmes standing in the stables.  
Not sure what to make of this sudden appearance John had just nodded politely and had asked: 'what can I do for you this morning, sir? I'm afraid I'm not available for any more early morning trips. I have work to do.' In hindsight his tone might have been a tad on the bitter side.  
Holmes had had a stern look on his face.  
'We need to talk', he had said.  
John had felt his guard going up at this remark. Holmes had asked him to talk before and that conversation had ended with him being none the wiser.  
'About what, sir?' he had asked.  
Holmes had seemed to grow impatient then. His tone of voice filled with frustration as he replied: 'you know very well about what, Watson. I need to know what you saw at the field.'  
John opened his mouth to reply, but before he could Holmes spoke again: 'and don't bother denying it. I know something startled you there. I have to know what it was. It's vital.'

Ah, so there it was. Holmes knew very well there had been something not quite right about that field and he had kept John out of the loop purposefully.  
Just as he had on the morning of their trip John felt anger rise in him once again and the next words he spoke passed his lips before he was able to calm himself down and so they were words he probably should not have spoken. In hindsight everything was easier. 

'Vital to who?', he spat out, 'to you? Certainly not to me it seems. There was something amiss at that field and you purposefully led me there under false pretenses. It was never a work trip. I was never there to assist you. I was just some fool caught up in the plans of a bored nobleman.' 

The words were like an avalanche now. When the first grains of snow start to go down there's no stopping the rest of it. And so John pressed on: 

'In the army I've had my fair share of so called noblemen giving orders we were to follow without painting the full picture. Men have died because of it. Good men. Men I called my friends', he tightly closed his eyes here for a second as the face of James flitted through his vision unwanted, 'I will not be used in this manner again, sir. Not by you and not by anyone else. So you'll have to pardon me if I'm less than willing to divulge to you everything I know if you do not have the decency to do the same for me in return.'

As John was nearing the end of his tirade he felt his anger subside. In it's place a panic was starting to rise. Slow and sure.  
What had he done?  
Going off on the lord of the house like this was probably a sure fire way to get himself sent away for good.  
Once again he cursed his temper.  
For a couple of moments Holmes had just stood there. Mouth slightly agape as an array of emotions passed over his face as he seemed to process what had just happened.  
In that moment John had been prepared for the worst so he had been taken completely off guard when, after what seemed like an age of silence, Holmes finally spoke:

'My dear Watson', he had said, 'I had no idea you would be so affected.'  
Holmes' features seemed to have settled on an expression now and they were, for lack of a better word, soft. It was Johns turn now to be struck dumb and so Holmes continued speaking: 

'You must know', he said, 'that it was never my intention to cause you any harm or to play any sort of cruel prank on you. The trip we went on was indeed, for all intents and purposes, a work trip. True, you were not privy to all of the details, but you must believe me when I say I did that for your own protection.' 

'My protection?' John had seemed to have found his voice again at that point. Even though Holmes' words were nothing but apologetic he was still skeptical.

'My line of work is.....dangerous.'

'So was mine.' 

Holmes actually smiled at this. Although fleeting.  
'Hence why I trust you.' he said. 

'Not enough apparently', John replied. His arms crossed and his posture defensive although he had been somewhat flattered by Holmes admission of his trust in him. 

'If you want to know what I saw you need to give me a little bit more information than that', he was trying his luck and he knew it, but he had to know.  
Both the anger and panic he had felt mere moments earlier had all been replaced by nothing but curiosity again. Although Holmes was secretive, mysterious, impossible and aggravating, so help him God, John still found him immensely fascinating and found he was drawn to him like a moth to a flame. 

Holmes thought this over for a couple of seconds and just when John thought that this time maybe he had pressed his luck a little too far he said: 

'Alright. But you must promise me I can count on your silence once again.'

John had nodded. 

And even now in the dark of his bedroom he could still vividly remember how Holmes' eyes had glowed bright blue when he had continued speaking: 

'My line of work.......deals with the supernatural', he had said. And one look at his eyes had told John that he was definitely not joking. 

'The supernatural?', he had replied. So taken aback was he that he could not come up with any words of his own and simply mimicked the last Holmes had said like an echo. 

'I deal with the dark side of it. It is my job to keep the monsters at bay', Holmes had continued and John had felt the pieces falling into place. During his time in the army he of course had heard the stories too. Stories of unnatural armies. Dark creatures that would only come out at night. Wiping out entire battalions under the cover of darkness. Descriptions of strange creatures that resembled humans, but only in a grotesque mocking way with wide mouths filled with black slime and razor teeth, limbs just a bit too long for their bodies, sharp claws where fingers should be and an almost animal-like speed had been known to almost every soldier. Especially the ones who had been stationed to the North.  
At the time John had laughed at these stories when James had told them to him.  
'If they kill every single soldier then who is left to pass the stories on', he had said.  
James had laughed with him.  
John wasn't laughing now. 

'The armies of the North', he had whispered. More to himself than as an actual reply, but Holmes had heard him nonetheless. 

'You know of them?' he had said. 

As he lay in bed now he could feel the air around him grow cold just thinking on it. Just as the air in the stables had seemed to grow cold around them as Holmes had talked to him about dark magic in hushed tones: 

'I myself have some magical powers and I try to use them for a cause I believe is right. There are more things in this world than most people can even imagine. Most people can't even see it unless you rub their noses in it. But you......you saw something, didn't you?'

John had nodded once again.  
'I saw a hand', he had whispered, 'and a bird.'

'A bird? What kind of bird?'

'A magpie I believe. It was made out of mist.'

'That doesn't make any sense', Holmes confused tone had told John that he would probably not get an explanation today about what his vision had meant. 

'That gateway was old....it had been closed a long time ago.....surely I would have.....' Holmes had muttered under his breath. Seemingly lost in thought.  
Suddenly however he had seemed to have reached a conclusion as his blue gaze was once again fixed on John.  
'I have to go back', he said. 

'Where?' 

'Beyond the mist', Holmes eyes shone like flashes of lightning now and before John could ask him anything else he had already turned himself around and was making his way towards to great doors that led outside.  
Not willing to let him go just yet after such a shocking revelation John yelled out:  
'Wait!'  
And Holmes indeed stopped at his command and turned back around. A wide grin on his face.  
'Will you at least be careful?' John said.  
Holmes smile widened. 'I will return to you John. And then I might be able to tell you more.'  
John had smiled back at him. Once again not being able to stop himself from smiling in the presence of Sherlock Holmes.  
'Like how you do magic for instance?' he had ventured.  
'Perhaps', Holmes had said and he had snapped his fingers and as he did so a small flame had formed at the tips of them.  
Both he and Holmes had stared at the small, flickering flame in shock.  
'Wow', John had said. He had believed what Holmes had told him up to that point. How could he not. Everything about Holmes just screamed magic. From his raven curls to his elven-like face and his eyes filled with light. But to see it firsthand was something else.  
He had however been quite confused as to why Holmes seemed shocked, but then in an awed whisper Holmes had said: 'I have never gotten that one to work on this side', then he had blown out the flame and left. 

As John turned himself over in his narrow bed he could feel a smile slowly forming on his face as he recalled the memory. He really hoped Holmes would come back soon. 

**************************************************************************************************

Sherlock was getting closer and closer to his destination. The sound of his feet on the floor now incredibly loud in the darkness that surrounded him as he made his way to a relatively new part of his mind palace.  
He could no longer hear Her footsteps behind him, but he knew She was there. And She still had to be close.  
In the distance he could now see a small sliver of yellow light. It was emanating from a door he had left ajar on his last visit here.  
He cursed under his breath.  
He had recently done some remodeling and had probably forgotten to lock it behind him. He had gotten careless. He just wasn't used to these kinds of emotions. This was exactly the reason why he had kept to himself all these years.  
Alone was what he had. Alone protected him. When others got involved there was always a risk of someone getting hurt. 

After what had seemed like an eternity he finally reached the door, stretched his hand out towards the ornate golden doorknob he had imagined there, slammed it shut, locked it tightly and as he turned around and leaned back against it, completely out of breath, his eyes stared directly into Hers as Her face floated only inches from his.  
A smile that consisted out of nothing but sharp teeth on Her face as Her dark hair billowed around Her head becoming one with the blackness around him. With a shock he realized that what he had initially thought was darkness had been Her presence catching up with him all along.  
All hopes he had had that She had not been able to see into the room before he had closed the door were dashed when She spoke:  
'Who was that in there, Ghost?'  
Even though it was his mind they were in he could feel Her breath on his face as if it was real. He could smell the putrid stench of it however hard She tried to make it smell like daisies. True evil cannot be hidden for long.  
'No one', he said, just a little bit too quickly he realized as he saw the smile widen on Her blood red lips.  
'So he is important'. Her voice always reminded him of wind making dead branches creak and moan as their twigs scratched across your bedroom window. He shivered.  
'He's pretty', She said as She cocked her head just a little bit too far to look completely natural, 'I like blonds.'  
And as She laughed Sherlock's blood ran cold.  
John Watson was definitely in danger. 

*******************************************************************************  
John shot up in his bed. He was pretty sure he had still been awake, but somehow he must have fallen into some kind of half slumber.  
In his sleep he had seen a most ghastly face.  
At first it had seemed to be a beautiful woman with dark hair and red lips. She had reminded him of Holmes a little bit.  
But as she came nearer and nearer her features had grown more and more twisted and distorted and what remained was a horrible caricature of what a woman should look like and as she had grinned at John, baring row after row of teeth, he had screamed out in terror. And then....she had been gone.  
It must have been a dream after all. Surely something so horrid could not possibly be real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is something I've wanted to do for such a long time:  
> Write something that's actually close to novel length and stick to it.  
> I'm just still so super pleased that there are still people reading it along with me.  
> A thousand 'thank you's to you all!


	11. Actions and Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Actions have consequences.
> 
> (A shorter chapter this time I'm afraid, but I have not had much time to write and this will probably not change much in the coming weeks)

As Sherlock stood there, still trapped in his mind palace with Morgana directly in front of him, he felt frozen in place. Unable to call his mind or body to action even though everything around them was a figment of his own imagination.  
Well, everything but Morgana of course. The Woman. She belonged to nobody but herself.  
All the candles around them had gone out by now, snuffed by the suffocating presence of the female entity that had no right being here, and so a vast darkness surrounded them. But even though he could now no longer see anything apart from his own form and Morgana's awful face Sherlock knew his mind palace was still there somewhere. Hiding in the nothing around them, holding its breath, like a mouse hiding from a cat.  
Something he perhaps should have done too instead of running.  
But he had to reach the door before she did. Close and lock it. Make sure she did not see.....

Behind him the door rattled in its hinges and the handle started twisting.  
Sherlock pressed himself against it as hard as he could and forced himself to think of something else. Anything but what was in that room.  
Morgana chuckled, an unnatural sound that reminded him of ice breaking, and a faint ringing remained in his ears after it had stopped.

'Come on, Ghost', she said. Her voice a half whine now as the toothy grin on her face spread impossibly wider, 'just a peek. I won't hurt him......much.'  
As she spoke once again Sherlock again felt her breath on his face. He gagged.  
Out of the darkness Morgana lifted a pale arm and as she ran her fingers along his cheek Sherlock noticed absentmindedly that her nails were painted red. Apart from her equally blood red lips it was the only colour that still penetrated the ever expanding darkness that followed her wherever she went. 

Morgana laughed, 'do you like my nails, Ghost?'  
'Get out of my head.' His own voice sounded foreign and frail to his ears. Her darkness seemed to swallow both sight and sound.  
On her face an expression formed that was probably supposed to resemble a pout, but on her it just looked as if she was trying to decide which part of him to eat first.  
'But I just got here', she said, 'I've never been in here before. Very nice of you to leave a window open.'  
Silently Sherlock cursed himself. He had not been himself lately. Just a couple of months ago he would never have made such a stupid mistake. Before he had met....

The door rattled again. More violently.  
Sherlock shut his eyes tightly and pushed back against it once more. 

'Come ooooooon!', Morgana howled, 'let me in there. I want him!'

Sherlock kept his eyes closed. He needed to get her out of here. And fast.  
And so he did the only thing he could think of in that moment and prayed it would work. 

In his mind he gathered every single spell he knew that would produce some form of light or flame and as he grabbed Morgana's hand he pressed it against his face and released them all.  
Briefly he felt her touch on his skin. It felt cold and damp and limp. Like something already dead, but then there was a blinding flash of light that he could see even through his tightly closed eyelids and all of a sudden..... the feeling was gone.  
And as he carefully opened his eyes again: so was she. 

Sherlock heaved a sigh of relief. He had to get out of here.

**************************************************************************************

As Sherlock stepped out of the mist again he still felt ill at ease.  
He was not so stupid as to believe he had actually defeated her, back there, inside the mist, inside his mind palace.  
He knew her too well for that. She had let herself be beaten. For now. Morgana was the most powerful sorceress he had ever met and if she wanted you dead.....well.....you were dead before you even saw her.  
Sherlock however had seen her on countless occasions. It was she who had first given him the nickname 'Ghost'. He hated that name and he was pretty sure she knew that. But he had also gotten some information from her from time to time. It was a game he played with her and she with him.  
A game of cat and mouse and he was under no illusion that he was anything else but the mouse in this scenario.  
Like a cat she toyed with him and as long as the game was still interesting she would let him live. 

And he had just made the game very interesting indeed. 

It was all John Watson's fault. If he hadn't been so.....  
Sherlock stopped his train of thought there and sighed.  
Of course it was not Watson's fault.  
Blaming him was like blaming the sun for shining in your eyes. All you had to do to avoid it was just look the other way.  
But he had found it very difficult to look the other way where Watson was concerned. 

“Pretty”, that's what Morgana had called John after catching a glimpse of him. Of course he had been. The version she had seen was the version Sherlock kept of him in his mind palace. How Sherlock viewed him.  
He knew that and now she knew it as well.  
He had given her leverage. A weak spot.  
If she were able to figure out who John was she would stop at nothing to get to him. If John was lucky she would just kill him, but she would most likely do something far, far worse.

Sherlock quickened his pace and called for his horse. The night around him was dark and it reminded him of Morgana and even though it was relatively warm for this time of year he shivered and pulled his cloak tight around him. 

He had told Watson too much. He should have never gotten him involved.  
And as he mounted his horse he cursed Finn for suggesting it to him. But he knew Finn was not to blame either.  
Feelings.  
Feelings were complicated. He didn't do feelings. 

As his horse trotted along his thoughts drifted back to the last meeting he and Watson had had.  
Where he had sort of “spilled the beans”. 

'The armies of the North', Watson had said and Sherlock had been so surprised to hear Watson guess correctly immediately.  
But after all the times Watson had surprised him already had it really been such a shock?  
And so he had told him everything he had dared to tell him. Everything he, at that point, had still deemed safe.  
How the armies of the North were creatures from another realm that seeped into ours from time to time. Bent on destruction and chaos. How there were people with magical powers in this world set on keeping these creatures at bay and that Sherlock himself was one of those people. 

What he had not told him and had not been willing to tell him was where these creatures came from, where Sherlock had to travel too from time to time and what he was looking for in those lands. That information was too dangerous.

Still, Watson had listened to him with bated breath. Believing every word he said, because, in his heart, Watson had known them to be true. He had felt it. Sherlock was sure of it. 

There was something about John Watson. Something solely unique.....  
Watson wasn't magical. Sherlock was certain of that. But magic seemed to gravitate towards him naturally. So of course he had heard every single story about the supernatural armies when he had still been a soldier. He had not gone looking for these stories, but somehow they had found him.  
And now, somehow, he seemed to have found himself a job at the household of the only Dark Mage in the entire county, witnessing Sherlock's spells and seeing through them time and time again where no one else could. And Sherlock had felt drawn to him like a moth to a flame. 

And then there were the events at the field. Sherlock had brought him to a gateway through the mist he and Finn had closed off years ago. But, as with all closed off gates, some magic still lingered there.  
Very perceptive people or those sensitive to magic could sometimes still sense it there like a tingling at the back of their eyes or spots of light swimming through their vision.  
But not Watson.  
Oh no.  
He had had an entire vision about a hand and a magpie....  
Sherlock had no clue what it all meant. He didn't like not knowing. So he had gone back to the mist to find information. 

As it turned out this had been a grave mistake. With thoughts of Watson and the puzzle he presented swimming through his head he had not had his full wits about him while traveling the Shadowlands and without realizing it he had found himself too close to Morgana's lair while he was filing away some information in his mind palace.  
And she had crept in. And she had seen John. 

With a shout and a swift kick Sherlock spurred his horse on. He needed to get back to Holmes manor.  
Morgana herself could not leave the Shadowlands. She was not powerful enough. Not yet. But she would send out spies to try and find John.  
Sherlock really hoped that the fact she had only been able to get a small glimpse would delay her just enough for him to take actions to protect John. Keep him safe.  
Sherlock cursed again.  
He had only himself to blame. 

*********************************************************************************************** 

It was unusually warm for the end of March, but John Watson was not complaining. It made his work around the stables and the orchard all the more agreeable.  
He'd even had his lunch outside with Mary on a couple of occasions.  
They had been sitting side by side, their backs against the trunk of a large apple tree, and it had reminded John of that time, only months ago but somehow it seemed like years to him, where they had sat side by side in the stable doors with a blanket over their knees and a warm cup of tea in their hands. This had been before he had met Master Holmes. Before he had turned John's life completely upside down. Made it interesting again. Made him feel alive again.  
'What are you smiling about?', Mary had asked waking him from his daydream.  
'This is nice', he had replied as he turned his face upwards towards the sun, basking in its warmth, 'I'm glad we're friends again.'  
For a moment Mary did not reply and John was afraid he had said something wrong. That he had somehow upset the fragile truce between them. But then Mary had smiled at him and said: 'yeah, I'd rather have you as a friend than not at all.'  
'Mary...' he had started to say, but she had held up her hand as a clear sign that whatever it is he had wanted to say she did not wish to hear it.  
'it's fine', was all she said. 

They had sat side by side in silence for a little while longer. John was starting to lose himself in thoughts of Master Holmes again. He really hoped he'd be back soon. He was glad he had gotten some kind of explanation at last, but he wanted to know more.  
Magic. Real magic. Who would have guessed.....  
And yet, he had not been as surprised as he thought he should have been. Maybe he had suspected something like this all along?  
After all, if you knew where to look, there was something definitely otherworldly and magical about Holmes. Perhaps his subconscious had known all along and that was why his conscious thoughts had such an easy time catching up.

'What are you smiling about now?', once again Mary's voice had brought him back to the present.  
'Nothing', he had said, shaking his head, 'we should get back to work soon. It would be nice if I got the stables completely re-painted before Master Holmes gets back again.'  
He had started to get up, but Mary had stayed seated against the tree. On her face had been an expression John had never seen there before, a cold and ugly thing, but it had only been there for a second as she quickly schooled her features again. 

'I for one am glad he's not here,' she had said. Her tone a tad bitter.  
'Does he bother you that much?'  
'Well', she had said, 'when he's around I don't get to spend as much time with you. He steals you away more and more lately.' She tried to smile, but to John it looked forced and fake.  
'He is the master of this house', he replied, unsure where she was going with this, 'if he gives me an order I am to follow it.'  
Mary was finally starting to get up from the ground too now and as she shook the dirt from her skirt a bit too violently she said: 'it's just not normal for the lord of the house to spend so much time with a stable-hand, that's all........people might talk.'  
'Talk? About what?', John had felt confused and very uneasy at her words, but Mary had started walking back towards the house in a brisk pace and instead of an answer she had just said: 'come on John! We'll be late!'  
And John had followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will be short on writing time in the next month or two, but I have not and never will abandon this story.  
> Chapters just might be a bit shorter or it will take me longer to update.  
> As usual: a HUGE thank you to anyone who is reading!  
> Please let me know what you think so far. I love hearing from you :-)


	12. Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Holmes tries to right his mistake, but is he doing the right thing?

Sherlock had been 8 years old when he first realized he had magical powers.  
He had been playing hide and seek with Mycroft. With his older brother being 10 years his senior and usually far too busy with his education, his future occupation and his place in local society this was a thing that did not happen often.  
It had been a particularly dreary day as Sherlock recalled it. The sky an oppressive gray colour and the outside air so moist that small droplets of water had formed on his eyelashes and cheeks as soon as he had stepped outside. His stepmother was away with her daughters for a couple of days to get new dresses fitted in the next town over so any pranks Sherlock had been planning to play on them weren't happening.  
He was pretty much left to his own devices with both his father and his brother having shut themselves in their respective workrooms to do....whatever it was adults did. 

Sherlock had been bored out of his mind. 

So he had made his way into Mycroft's study, the door creaking as he gingerly shoved against it and poked his head around the corner.  
His brother had looked old that day. Far older than he had been. His shoulders had been hunched up high as he rested his elbows on the oaken desk he sat at. Sherlock had just been able to make out the tense frown on his face as he sat there, unmoving, in front of the only window in the room through which the gray outside world could just barely be seen. 

'Mycroft?' his voice had sounded loud in the tense silence that had hung in the room. 

At first Mycroft had not reacted.

Sherlock had cleared his throat.  
'Mycroft?' he had tried again. Slightly louder. 

This time Mycroft did react. A look of surprise on his face as he saw Sherlock standing there, but underneath there had been a tiredness that had scared Sherlock.  
For a moment he wondered if it had not been better to turn around and close the door. Leave his brother to whatever it was that he was doing. Sherlock could just see large maps on the desk before his brother quickly folded his hands over them.  
Eight year old Sherlock had secretly hoped they were pirate treasure maps and maybe that was why his brother was sometimes away for such long periods of time on end.  
Even though their bond was no longer as strong as it once had been and they barely ever did anything together anymore Sherlock always missed his brother terribly when he was gone.  
His thoughts wandered to Mycroft - serious, stern and well put together Mycroft – as a pirate and he had giggled.  
At that age his voice had still been that of a child and the sound had been high and bright and for a moment the room seemed to be a little bit lighter as Mycroft smiled a small smile in return and shook his head. 

'What is it, Locky?' he had said, 'anything the matter?' 

Recognizing an opportunity when he saw one Sherlock had taken this as his cue to fully enter the room and he had closed the door behind him. 

'Mycroft I'm boooooored!' he had drawled in that special way that all small children seem to have mastered and he had flung himself across Mycroft's desk. His face almost smashing into the carefully splayed out maps, but Mycroft had been quicker as he pulled the maps from the desk surface, folded them neatly and locked them into one of the desks many drawers with the small key he always wore around his neck.  
'I don't have time, Locky. I have work to do. You know that.' 

Sherlock hadn't thought it possible but Mycroft had looked even older then. Sherlock hated seeing his brother this way. 

'Come oooooooon', the drawl had still been firmly in place, 'you've been working all day and I can't go outside to play, because the air's all wet.' 

'The air is wet?' Mycrofts eyebrows had lifted as another small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth taking off at least five years. 

'It sticks to my hair and makes it go all frizzy.'

For a second the smile widened and then was gone again. Over the years Mycroft had become a master at schooling his features. Sherlock hated it. 

'Play inside then.' 

'I tried.'

'And.....?'

'Father says I'm too loud.'

Here Mycroft had actually laughed taking another 10 years off of him and the room had seemed brighter once again. He had stuck out his hand and ruffled Sherlock's hair where he had thrown himself over the desk. 

'Hey!' 

'Want to play hide and seek then, Locky? I'm sure father won't object to that......and I think it's about time for a break for me anyway.'

Sherlock's eyes had lit up.  
'Yes, yes, yes!' He had shouted as he lifted his head up off the table with a jolt and Mycroft had laughed again and had looked 18 once more. 

***********************************************************************************************

At first it had been amazing. Sherlock was to hide and Mycroft was to find him.

'Be still as a mouse', Mycroft had told him, 'I'll find you if you so much as squeak.'

Sherlock had giggled and had quickly slapped his hand over his mouth, quieting the high pitched sound. 

He had, however, taken Mycroft's advice to heart and had tried to make as little sound as possible as he tiptoed through the mansions halls on his stockinged feet. Having come to the conclusion that his shoes just made too much noise. 

It had all been going wonderfully well. Twenty minutes in Mycroft still had not been able to find him, but twenty-five minutes in he realized that in fact nobody could see or hear him. 

At first he thought it was some kind of prank, but when the fifth servant bumped into him without acknowledging him in any way and did not even respond to his panicked shouts Sherlock got scared. Very scared. 

The explanation his child's mind had come up with was that he had died and was now somehow haunting the halls of his former home. 

Not knowing what to do he had ran. He had ran out the door, over the path through the orchards, through the fields and into the wooded area beyond. He had ran until he couldn't run anymore and his stockings were drenched through.  
He had sat with his back against a tree, his arms slung around his knees, tears streaming down his face as his breath came in big, panicked sobs.  
His toes were cold and numb and he shivered as the day grew darker and darker around him as the hours passed by. 

**************************************************************************************

In the end it was Mycroft who found him. 

'Sherlock?' his voice soft with a hint of panic barely contained underneath the surface. 

Sherlock had been too scared to lift his head from where he had dropped it down between his knees. His arms still slung protectively around himself. 

'Locky?' A warm hand was on his shoulder now and soon he found himself enveloped in Mycroft's coat. The warmth and smell that was distinctly “Mycroft” and “home” finally calming his nerves just a bit. 

Sherlock had lifted his head. His face had been puffy and ghastly white as the traces of many shed tears could still be seen on his cheeks. 

'You can see me?' the first thing he had asked. His voice barely more than a whisper. Hoarse from hours and hours of hysterical crying. 

'Oh Locky, of course I can. What are you doing all the way out here.....and without your shoes.......you gave us all quite a fright.'

And Sherlock had known that it was true then. Looking up in his brothers face he had seen the same fear he had been feeling for hours now and so he had stretched out his small arms and had wrapped them around his brother who had, in turn, wrapped him in a tight embrace. Sherlock had started sobbing again. 

'There, there', Mycroft had said as he gently stroked Sherlock's hair as if he was some kind of feral animal that he was trying to calm, 'you're alright now. I'm here.' 

'I......thought.....I …....was.....a.....ghost.' Sherlock had managed to produce the words in between the sobs. 

Mycroft had actually laughed at this, 'you're _my_ little ghost,' he had said as he planted a kiss on the top of his head and Sherlock had immediately felt warmer. 

***************************************************************************************

Until quite recently this had been the only glimpse into his mind palace Morgana had been able to get. 

For the longest time this had been his happy memory. He had displayed it proudly in the entrance hall of his mind palace. The name 'Ghost' an endearment between him and his brother.  
Whenever he felt sad he would close his eyes and step through the door of his mind palace and he would find himself enveloped in Mycroft's coat again. Still several sizes too big for Sherlock. And he could smell his brother, feel his arms around him, his breath ghosting across his riot of curls as he muttered “you're my little ghost”.  
It always made Sherlock feel better.  
Even after his brother had disappeared.  
Especially after his brother had disappeared. 

But one day he had been careless. He had left a window open and Morgana had peeked inside. She had not been able to enter. Not that time. But she had seen the memory. Had heard the words and had twisted them into something false, corrupted and shameful. From then on the name “Ghost” was an insult. Something to be ashamed of and she used it whenever she met him ever since.  
Now Sherlock had the memory hidden deep within. In a room without doors or windows and he never went there anymore. 

*********************************************************************************************8

After finding him Mycroft had scooped him up in his arms and had carried him back home. Sherlock remembered very little of this. He had been tired and cold.  
The next thing he remembered was sitting in a chair by the fire with a blanket wrapped around him in his fathers office. Sherlock was not allowed in here. Not ever.  
He had assumed he was in trouble. And, in hindsight, in a way he had been. 

His father had explained to him that being able to do magic ran in their family and was passed down from father to son. He had hoped Sherlock would have been spared this fate. Sometimes a son turned out “normal”.  
Sherlock still hated the term. To this day he was well aware still of how not “normal” he was.  
His father had told him that he had a duty now. The same one he had and Mycroft had. Sherlock could glimpse his brother standing in a corner of the room. His arms crossed. Looking once again very old. His brother had stayed silent.  
His training would start the next day. 

And so it had. 

Sherlock had been well trained. Not only in magic. How to use spells properly, when to use them, where to use them and how to make spells of his own.  
But he had also been trained in how to keep silent about what he could do, keeping your emotions to yourself, shutting everyone else out, how to be alone.....how to be lonely.  
His childhood had been joyless from that point on. It had been the last time Mycroft had played a game with him. 

And then eleven years later his father had disappeared. And then Mycroft. And then he truly learned what it meant to be lonely. 

*****************************************************************************

Ever since that day when Mycroft had found him amidst the trees, shivering, wet and exhausted he had not been able to get truly warm ever again. 

Only. 

That was not quite true. Not anymore. 

Sherlock was seated on his horse on the hill that led down towards the path that would lead him to the doors of Holmes Manor once more.  
Here, partially hidden behind a tree, he had an excellent view of the orchard that lay beneath. 

John Watson was there.  
The afternoon sun shone down on his golden hair and it made him seem as if he was made out of sunlight itself. 

John was not alone in the orchard.  
The blond maid was with him. The one with the curls.  
Sherlock had never bothered to learn her name. He didn't see the point in it. She didn't matter. If he set his mind to it he could have her handing in her resignation as early as tomorrow morning. 

He sighed. 

He wouldn't do that though. John liked her. They seemed to spend a lot of time together. Sherlock supposed a friendship had formed between them and maybe.....more?  
He didn't know.  
He wasn't sure if he wanted to know.  
He desperately wanted to know. 

He sighed again. 

The woman touched John's arm as she laughed at something he said.  
Sherlock narrowed his eyes.  
He saw John smile in return and Sherlock was reminded of the occasions where that smile had been directed at him and how it had made him feel.  
Not only was John's hair made out of golden sunlight his smiles seemed to be made out of it too, because whenever he smiled at him Sherlock could feel some of the warmth he had once felt when he had been oh so much younger returning to him. 

He could not give that up.  
He had to give that up. 

He had put John in danger. Grave danger. Morgana was not someone to be trifled with.  
He had to make things right. His hand clenched tightly around the object currently in his pocket. 

The blond maid laughed again as she now pressed herself playfully against John.  
Sherlock squeezed the object just a little bit tighter.  
He wondered how John felt about this woman.  
It was obvious she was flirting with him. And who could blame her. John was brave and kind and ….not altogether bad looking.  
What if John felt the same about her? Sherlock had never seen John flirt back, but what did he even know about John's methods of courting another.  
John would be perfectly justified in seeking out a romantic relationship with whomever he chose.  
John wasn't his. Could not be his. Would never be his. 

Sherlock averted his eyes from the scene below him for a couple of seconds as his lungs felt too small and his chest too tight.

He had grown attached to John. This should never have happened. From an early age on he had been taught differently.  
Personal relationships were dangerous. They could not happen.  
And yet.....spurred on by Finn and the pure magnetic power John seemed to have on him he had dared to pursue something of a friendship. He thought that would be alright.  
It had not been alright. He had messed everything up.  
He wasn't even sure how John felt about him in return. Did he even feel as much as friendship? Or was he just playing the part of the faithful servant?  
John had proven himself trustworthy. Keeping Sherlock's secrets even after he had told him perhaps more than he should have. Spurred on by John's bright smiles. Sherlock would do anything to have John's smiles directed at him so he could warm himself by the pure sunlight they produced. 

But if he truly cared for John.  
And he did.  
He would end this today. Keep John safe by not involving him any further in Sherlock's life.  
Once again Sherlock had to look away from the scene below him as a tight feeling was again forming in his chest.

He had never felt for anyone what he felt for John. These feeling were new to him and he didn't know what to do with them.  
Just as he had done when he had been 8 years old and afraid he now decided that running away from his problems might be the best option.  
But there was one thing he had to do first.  
And as the maid left the orchard John was once again alone and Sherlock spurred on his horse and made his way down the slope towards him. 

********************************************************************************  
'Good afternoon Watson.'

John felt a warmth spread through his chest when he heard the familiar baritone behind him.  
Quickly he turned around and was greeted by the sight of Master Holmes standing beside a large apple tree leading his horse by the reins. He was once again wearing his riding gear, but with the weather being so warm for the time of year he had left his cape slung haphazardly over the saddle.  
John took a moment to admire how his riot of dark curls seemed to glow in the light of the afternoon sun. 

'Sir, good afternoon', he said as a smile he could not contain spread over his face. 

Holmes returned his smile, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. For a moment John thought he saw a sadness there in stark contrast with the forming smile, but it was gone before he could fully register it. 

'It is well that I find you here alone', Holmes continued. 

'Is it now?' John replied playfully before he could stop himself. Mary had been flirting viciously with him this afternoon and some of her behavior seemed to have rubbed off on him. 

Holmes cast his eyes down and seemed to be at a loss for words for a moment. John quite liked this startled look on him. Perhaps he should flirt with Holmes more often.....no....no, he definitely should not. What was he even thinking.  
He politely cleared his throat and just to break the silence he decided to say the first thing that popped into his head: 'your lordship had chosen a fine day to return.'

A small smile once again formed on Holmes' face, but once again it did not reach his eyes. 

'So I have.....so I have.' 

'Have you had a good trip, sir?' If Holmes knew what John was hinting at - where did he go? Was magic involved? Did he have to fight anything? - he certainly wasn't letting on. 

'Same as always I'm afraid. Quite tedious.......It's good to be back.' 

This time it was John's turn to cast his eyes down and look slightly flustered. Maybe he wasn't the only one in a flirty mood. But that was impossible. Holmes was a nobleman. Utterly breathtakingly beautiful while John was just....well...John.... and to look at another man in such a way was.....well....just wrong. Did he even see John as a friend? John hoped he did. He saw Holmes as a friend, but for all he knew the master of the house only saw him as another employee. Albeit one he confided in. 

'Watson?' Holmes tone was uncertain. Questioning. John had not realized he had lost himself in thought so readily.  
He once again looked up at Holmes who was now framed by the light of the afternoon sun. The orchard made for quite an idyllic backdrop and the sight of him took John's breath away. 

'Sir?' he managed to say. His voice only slightly unsteady. 

Holmes face had turned grave and serious and John felt an uneasy feeling rise from the pit of his stomach. 

For a couple of seconds Holmes said nothing as if he didn't know where to begin or as if he was afraid to begin. The uneasy feeling was starting to rise higher and higher and John was afraid that if Holmes didn't start speaking soon he would end up being suffocated by it. 

'I'm afraid you are in danger, John.'

'Danger? How so?' the uneasy feeling subsided just a bit. Danger John could handle. He had been dealing with danger for the better part of his adult life. He just needed to know what kind. 

Holmes cleared his throat and did his best to avert John's eyes.  
'An....entity.....has become aware of your existence.' 

 

John frowned. Uncertain what to think.  
'Is there some kind of monster after me?' 

'Do not make light of the situation, John.' 

Holmes sounded tense. Like a nerve ready to snap. Also the use of his given name was new. John quite liked it, but not the way in which it was said. 

Holmes raked his fingers through his raven curls. Messing them up even more and John could not take his eyes of the slender fingers gliding through the silken strands of hair. 

'This entity', Holmes continued after another pause, 'is very dangerous. It could seriously hurt you were it to find you. I'm afraid your ….. involvement.....with me has brought you nothing but harm so far' 

The use of the word “involvement” stung just a little bit. Did Holmes see him as just an employee after all? He tried to not think on it too much.  
'Now I know something is coming I'll be ready',he replied. 'What does it look like?' Somehow he felt no fear at all. John Watson was not a man to shy away from a fight. If he was perfectly honest with himself he found that the prospect of danger sparked a part of him back to life that he had been missing for a long time. He felt younger for it. 

Holmes laughed, but there was no joy to the sound.  
'I commend your bravery, John. I had expected nothing less of you, but in this case it would be better if we were able to avoid a fight altogether.' 

Once again Holmes had used his given name. That in combination with the use of the term “we” made something warm and comfortable flutter through Johns chest. 

'How do we do that then?' he asked. Making sure his wording included them both as well. 

Here Holmes reached in his pocket and pulled out an object about the size of a pocket watch wrapped in a soft cloth.  
Holmes looked around them to see if they were still truly alone before he unwrapped whatever it was that lay within the folds.  
It appeared to be a medallion indeed the size of a pocket watch. It was made of silver with an intricate pattern etched into it as it was hung on a silver chain. The sunlight reflected brightly off of its polished surface. 

John looked at Holmes questioningly. 

'It will protect you.' Holmes answered his unspoken question. 

'Protect me?' 

'It has......powers. It will keep you safe.' 

'You're asking me to wear this?' 

Holmes nodded.  
'Yes. At all times.' The look on his face simultaneously hopeful and sad. Why did he look so sad today? 

'Is everything alright?' John had to know. 

Holmes averted his eyes once again.  
'Everything is fine.....it will be fine.'

'Are you sure? I don't mean to be forward sir, but you know you can confide in me if there's...'

'Please take it, John.' Holmes either hadn't heard him or he was pretending not to. 

'It's rather.......shiny. I'm not sure' 

A small smile crossed Holmes' face again. More honest this time.  
'You can wear it underneath your clothes. As long as you wear it.' 

'And this is really necessary?'

Finally Holmes looked him in the eyes again. Still John could see a sadness there, but his tone was stern and unwavering.  
'Yes.' 

'Al right then.' 

And as John stretched out his hand Holmes placed the medallion gingerly in his palm. Keeping his own hand in place over it for the time being. His fingertips lightly touching Johns skin.  
And as Holmes bowed his head and let out a sigh he was so close that John only had to bow his own head in order to rest his own forehead against that of his master.....or press a soft kiss against those inviting dark curls. Anything to lessen the tension that could currently be seen in Holmes' shoulders and back.  
John did neither of those things. 

'Thank you', Holmes said as he retracted his hand and once again lifted his head.  
To John it sounded more like “Goodbye”. 

Carefully John slipped the chain around his neck and slid the medallion underneath his shirt. It felt heavy and cold against his skin. 

Once again a smile was on Holmes face, but his eyes seemed to look even sadder. 

'Is there anything I can do for you, sir?' John tried. Seeing Holmes so....unsure....did not sit well with him at all. 

Holmes just shook his head. 

'I'm sure you will be fine now.' 

'And what about you?'

Holmes seemed to be taken aback a bit by this question. Was he being too forward? Perhaps he was. He didn't care. 

Again his master produced a sad smile. John didn't believe it for a minute. 

'I will be fine. I'm always fine.'  
It was a downright lie and they both knew it. Neither of them commented on it. 

'Would you be so kind as to escort my horse to the stables though? I will be needing it again in the morning.' 

'So soon?' John was unable to keep the disappointment out of his voice. 

'Yes. I'm sorry John. Matters at the moment are.....difficult.'

'Of course, sir. I'll help you in any way I can. You know this.' 

'Thank you.' 

It definitely sounded more like “goodbye”. 

**************************************************************************************

John did not even see Holmes leave in the morning. By the time he got up both the black horse and its master were already gone.

Once again an uneasy feeling stirred in the pit of his stomach as the medallion felt heavy around his neck. 

He could vaguely remember a dream he had that night. It had not been his usual nightmare, but something else entirely.  
Holmes had been standing by the side of his bed. Once again that sad look had been on his face as he gingerly had stretched out his hand and oh so carefully had run his fingers across Johns cheek.  
But when John had opened his eyes the form of Holmes had slowly disappeared and he had found himself quite alone in his room. It had been difficult to go back to sleep after that. 

John heaved a sigh as he got ready for another day of menial work around the stables, the manor and the orchard.

'Goodbye', he said to no one in particular.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another update!  
> A rather lengthy chapter this time, but I've had plenty of time to think this one out.  
> Also: I have SUCH a soft spot for Mycroft! I like to think these boys used to have a very lovingly relationship, but it got derailed somewhere along the way. I also have a soft spot for Mycroft calling young Sherlock 'Lock' or 'Locky'. 
> 
> Once again: I'd like to thank everyone who's read this story up to this point. Your comments and kudos mean the world to me.


	13. A Strange Visitor (part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where has Holmes gone to and who will come to seek out John?

John had been 11 years old when he had seen a dead person for the first time.  
To his knowledge his father had never given any indication that he had been unhappy.  
His marriage to his mother a loving one with two children as the end result.  
John and his older sister Harriet. Or Harry, as she preferred to be called. His mother had always berated his sister for the nickname. “You are not a boy, Harriet”, she used to say as Harriet just rolled her eyes and his father chuckled from behind his newspaper.  
Whenever John remembered his father, something he tried to do as little as possible, there were always two versions of him. There was the smiling, loving husband and father who gave the best hugs in the world and then there was the version of him John had seen last. His eyes wide and unblinking, his mouth opened in a soundless scream and his face white as the rope he had used to hang himself with cut horrible red lines into the soft flesh of his neck.  
Two wildly different versions that, however hard he tried, John could not seem to merge together. It hadn't made sense then and it did not make sense now. 

Much, much later John had tried asking Harry why she thought their father had done it. If she had noticed anything wrong. Anything at all.  
She had refused to talk.  
“It's in the past, Johnny. What does it matter?”, she had said, “It doesn't change anything. Even if there was some kind of reason he will still be gone. I've moved on, why can't you?”  
His sisters eyes had welled up with tears as she had turned her face away. John had never asked her again. She was right. What was the point in knowing?  
Their father's death had torn a hole through their family and had broken them all beyond repair. Knowing the “why” would not change that.

They had never been a particularly rich family and after his father's sudden passing their situation had gotten significantly worse.  
His sister had been quick to move out and find a job in housekeeping somewhere.  
She hadn't been able to hold that job for long though and the same seemed to be true for every job she had gotten after that, because the sporadic letters she sent home always came from a different address.  
Their contents were always the same: I am well, this is where I am currently employed, here is part of my wages.

She never told them more than was strictly necessary. There were never any descriptions of herself, never any descriptions of these places she found herself in, the people she met, an indication of how she felt.....just “I am well.”  
She would also never ask how their mother was doing, how John was doing....  
At first John had resented her for it. Later he had admired her. That she could free herself so seemingly easily from the shadows of the past and lead her own life was something he desperately wanted to do too, but found he couldn't. However hard he tried. 

His relationship with his mother, not having been that good to begin with, it had been his father who he had always looked up to, got gradually worse now that there was no one else left in the small house to serve as a buffer between them.  
To John it had always seemed as if his mother blamed him for his father's death. Maybe it had been because he had been the one to find him. The one to break the news. As if, if he hadn't screamed and cried, if he hadn't seen, nobody would have and so, in a way, it would not have been true.  
Or maybe she had wanted to be the one to find him. Maybe she felt as if John had robbed her of this last intimate moment with her husband. John didn't know and where he had tried to talk to his sister about this he hadn't dared to try and talk to his mother.  
If the conversation even so much as veered in the direction of his father he could always count on some choice words and a severe beating. One time it had been so bad that the white of one of his eyes had turned completely red and it had taken two weeks for it to go back to normal.  
And so, as soon as he could, John had left the house too. He had fled to the army, where he had seen many more deaths and where he, at last, had felt somewhat at home.  
But misfortune seemed to cling to his heels as James had died and he himself was irreparably damaged.

Forced to leave the place he had called home for many years and having no one to turn to for support but himself, John had wished on more than one occasion that it was he himself who had died and not his father.  
He had spent many cold and hungry nights where he hadn't been able to find a warm place to sleep wondering how painful death by hanging truly was.  
He had never actually gone through with it, but more than once he had found his hands idly tying and untying bits of rope in some barn or other where he was momentarily employed to do the odd job and wondered what it would feel like stretching across his neck. 

*********************************************************************************************  
Absentmindedly John's fingers traced the silver chain around his neck as he was changing the hay in one of the stalls. The medallion a cold weight underneath his clothes pressing against his breastbone.  
To say he was disappointed was an understatement.  
However hard he tried he could not seem to be able to get a grip on master Holmes.  
One moment he seemed to be the proper lord most people took him for, on another occasion he came across as a daring adventurer or a faerie prince, as it turned out he also seemed to be a mysterious magician, but then there were also these moments where he seemed frail and unsure.  
Like last week. When he had given John this medallion to “protect him” and had refused to say any more on the matter and had disappeared before John even had a chance to ask him anything else.  
He had looked so sad and John didn't know why.  
The man was like an oyster. A hard outer shell clamped tightly shut on the pearl inside that was his dazzling personality that sometimes shone through the cracks.  
John had really hoped that, after finding out that master Holmes could do magic....real magic.....he would be able to find out more about the why and the how gradually, bit by bit, as time went on.  
Apparently he had been wrong. Once again Holmes had left. Telling him nothing. Not even whether he would be back at all and John was disappointed.  
If Holmes expected trust from him should it not go both ways?  
After everything they had been through together he felt his master owed him that at least. 

The morning after Holmes had left like a thief in the night John had carefully asked around the house if anyone knew where he had gone to. Nobody knew. Nobody seemed to care.  
Mary had even smiled when he asked her. The smile strange and crooked as if she was hiding a secret herself.  
'Wherever he's gone', she said, 'I don't think he'll be back anytime soon.'  
She had said it with such certainty John had not dared to ask her anything else. 

***********************************************************************************************

The days had just dragged on after that. Each one just as mundane and uneventful as the next. And every time John heard someone enter the stable-complex or when someone approached him in the orchard he secretly hoped he would be greeted by blue eyes, raven curls and a mysterious smile, but it never happened. 

And so as he found himself now in the stables at work as the day drew to an end and the sky filled itself with all kinds of orange and red colours he was not expecting anyone special anymore as he heard the heavy doors open at his back. 

At first he paid the visitor no mind. If it was someone who needed him for something they would surely seek him out or call for him.  
John continued on working.  
Somewhere behind him he heard the doors close again and the sound of footsteps could be heard making their way across the complex.  
The visitor had not left then....huh....  
At first the footsteps drew nearer to where he was at work, but then they just....stopped.  
There was no “hello?” or a calling out of his name. The visitor just stood there and waited. As if he had all the time in the world. As if what he needed would come to him eventually.  
John was starting to feel uneasy, but also...slightly curious.  
Curiosity eventually getting the better of him when, after a good 15 minutes the visitor still found himself in the exact same place, he decided to go and see who this stranger was. 

And as John emerged from the stall he was greeted by the sight of a rather strange man.  
He had a casual air about him. His hands loosely clasped behind his back, his feet slightly apart as he took in the stables with a sort of half smile on his face.  
His clothing reminded John of the riding gear master Holmes used to wear. Black boots, fitting trousers and a dark jacket, but he did not resemble Holmes in any other way.  
Where Holmes' complexion was pale this man's skin was dark. At first glance John would have called it “light brown”, but the longer he looked at the man the more wrong that description seemed to be. He did not think there was an actual name known to man for the colour of this man's skin. The same went for his hair, neatly slicked back. To the casual onlooker it could be described as black, but the longer John looked at it the more wrong that description felt also.  
And then the man finally looked at John himself and even the look in his eyes felt wrong and out of this world and in a reflex John lifted his hand to his chest where the medallion was hidden.  
The words of master Holmes swimming through his mind. 

_An entity has become aware of your existence_

John's guard was up. 

'Can I help you.....sir?' He said. 

'Ah!', said the strange man, the smile never leaving his face 'you must be John Watson. I was not expecting you to be so.......'  
The smile wavered a bit.

'So....what?' John said as his eyes flicked across the area around him trying to figure out what items could be used as a serviceable weapon in a fight. 

The man's grin only grew wider. As if he knew something John didn't and for a moment his eyes seemed to glow red. The medallion felt warm against John's skin. 

'I am looking for your master', the man said. His tone carefree and casual. Hands still clasped behind his back.  
John wondered if he was hiding a weapon in his hands where he could not see it. 

'Who wants to know.' A statement. Not a question. 

An eye roll and a sigh followed that reminded John so much of master Holmes that he shivered involuntarily.

'A friend, John.' Another sigh. 

'Watson, please. Only my friends call me John.' 

'Does Holmes call you John?' the smile grew even wider and finally the man moved his hands from his back only to let them hang loosely at his sides. His hands were empty. No concealed weapon after all then. 

John did not answer. He just scowled at the stranger and tried to make himself seem as intimidating as possible.

Once again the man rolled his eyes and this time the similarity was so uncanny that John had to close his eyes for a second to compose himself. 

'My name is Finn', the man said, 'and I am a friend of your master Holmes. You have nothing to fear. I am just trying to find him. He did not come to meet me when he was supposed to.' 

'He's not here.' John was not about to trust this total stranger. Especially not after Holmes had warned him about a danger that was after him. Especially not after Holmes had looked so sad. After he had left in the middle of the night....

'I do not have time for this.' the mumbled reply. More to himself than to John. 

'If you don't have time maybe it would be best if you just left then....sir.' 

'Gods above', clear exasperation in his voice now, 'you two are made for each other. Equally stubborn. Listen. I need to find your master Holmes. It is important. He might be in danger.'  
The smile had now completely left the man's face.

'I told you. I do not know where he is.' 

Finn's eyes glowed red once more and then the look of exasperation suddenly was replaced by one of disbelief and shock.  
'You really don't know, do you?' 

John shook his head. 

Finn muttered a single word under his breath in a language unfamiliar to John, but if he had to guess he'd say it was a curse word.  
'When did he leave?' panic clung to the edges of his words now mixed with a hint of fear. 

John felt his unease grow, but no longer because he thought his own life might be in danger. He wished he did know where Holmes had run off to. 

'He left a week ago on horseback', the words slipping out from between his lips before he could stop them. 

'A week? That doesn't make sense.....he should have been there.....'

A moment of silence as Finn seemed to be lost in thought and then: 'Did he leave anything? A note? A message? An object? Anything?' 

Finn stepped closer to John and in a reflex John took a step back. 

'We do not have time for this, John....Watson....Whatever.' more panic was starting to seep into his words now and John was starting to wonder if this Finn really was a friend after all. His concern seemed sincere.  
The medallion felt warmer and warmer against his skin by the second. 

'Nothing', John lied, 'he left nothing.' 

Finn narrowed his eyes. It was clear he was not buying into the lie. His eyes searching John for clues and then they widened as they fell on the only part of the medallion that was visible. The silver chain around his neck. And all of a sudden Finn seemed to turn quite pale. 

'No.' all he said. 

John clutched a hand to his chest where the silver jewelry lay hidden protectively. 

'Where did you get that?' Finn's tone demanding and urgent. John saw no more reason to lie.

'He gave it to me.' 

'He gave.......do you have any idea what it does?' 

'He said it would protect me.....'

Finn's expression turned into one of exasperation again.  
'That idiot.....you had better be worth it Watson'

John didn't quite know what to say to this. 

'Do you know', Finn continued, 'how many of these there are in the world?' 

John shook his head.

'Only one. It was his. And now he gave it to you.' 

Finn's eyes bore into John's and all of a sudden he understood. If this medallion really kept you protected and there was only one and, until recently, it had belonged to Holmes. That meant that John was now quite safe and Holmes...was decidedly not.  
His eyes widened in shock and understanding, but Finn was already making his way to the doors that led back outside. 

'Wait!', John said, 'where are you going.' 

'I need to find him and I think I know where to look now.'

'Take me with you.' 

'No.' 

'But...'

'I said no', a moment of silence and then Finn continued in a softer tone, 'but he might need you when I get back.' 

John nodded, but Finn was already out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading.


	14. A Strange Visitor (part II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will Finn return? Will he find Holmes? Will John get any answers?

The first day after Finn's departure John felt ill at ease and unable to concentrate. His head filled with doubts and the unrelenting thought that he should have followed the strange man outside. 

If he even was a man. 

John very much doubted he was.   
The air of otherwordlyness he bore around him having been almost palpable as it fitted him like a well worn cloak. 

He should have followed him outside. 

Followed him to where Holmes was. Or where he thought Holmes was at least.   
He should have.   
But John hadn't.   
And now he was left waiting like some kind of damsel in distress. Twiddling his thumbs as he sat idly by, unsure and uncertain, until the real heroes returned.

John hated waiting. He hated not doing anything. Once again he found his fingers tracing the silver chain around his neck. The medallion seeming more like a weight pulling him down by the second.   
He should not have accepted it. He had known something was wrong then, as Holmes approached him in the orchard.   
But the sun had been out and had reflected on Holmes' raven hair so distractingly and Mary had put him in such a lighthearted mood with all of her flirtations. He had just simply allowed himself to close his eyes to the hint of sadness that had clung to all of Holmes' words. 

He should have opened them. 

He should have taken Holmes' arm, shaken him, waking them both, he should have demanded him to tell, once and for all, exactly what was going on. 

John had done nothing of the sort. 

He had smiled and agreed. Something a servant would do. And, in truth, that's what he was. A servant.   
Was it really so wrong that he had followed along with his masters wishes?   
It felt wrong.   
It felt all wrong. He felt as wrong and out of place as he had felt in the army hospital after suffering his near fatal shoulder wound.   
And, back then, as he had lain there, taking orders, waiting without taking control himself, James had died and he had lost everything. 

******************************************************************************************

On the second day after Finn's departure John had taken his horse very early in the morning, before anyone else was even awake, and he had ridden it to the field where Holmes had taken him once before.   
He wasn't really sure what he was hoping to find there, but as he had woken up that morning his room had felt incredibly small. The walls seeming to grow closer and closer with every breath he took and he had felt as if he was suffocating.   
He needed air. He needed to think. He needed to _not_ think.   
He wasn't sure what he needed. 

The field was vastly different from the last time John had been there. For a moment he wondered if he was even in the right place. Maybe he had remembered incorrectly.....  
But then he saw the piles of stones where, before, he had seen the mist and the hand and the magpie.   
Looking at them now he wondered how he could ever have seen anything besides what it truly was. Just a pile of old stones. A warm orange glow over them as the sun steadily rose from behind the horizon.   
There was no mist, no dew on the grass beneath his feet, the only birds he could hear were blackbirds, sparrows and the odd thrush.  
The field looked peaceful, warm and inviting.   
It did nothing to calm John's nerves.  
His horse stood close by pawing at the ground with one of its hooves absentmindedly as it turned its head towards John and whinnied softly.  
It was as if they both didn't really know why they were here so early in the morning.   
'It's just a field', John reminded himself as he hoisted himself back into the saddle once again.   
By the time he returned to the mansion his horse's nostrils were flaring and its coat was drenched with sweat.

***************************************************************************************************

On the third day John had decided to completely devote himself to his work. Maybe some good physical labor would turn his mind to other things. 

The previous night he had had another nightmare. 

He had been standing in the field he had visited so early in the morning. But instead of finding nothing of interest there amidst the sound of the early morning birds he had heard a faint buzzing sound. In his dream he had followed the sound to its origin and as the buzzing grew ever louder and louder it had led him to a swarm of flies . And as John got even closer still, his feet seemingly moving all on their own, he found what the horrid insects were so attracted to.   
The mangled corpse of master Holmes. His eyes had been gone. His once so vibrant curls dull, wet and sticking to his face. His complexion even paler than John remembered it. The only splash of color in the entire scene had been the pool of blood he had been laying in.   
John had screamed, startling the flies, and as the swarm took off and headed straight for him he had woken up. 

He had eaten very little for breakfast that morning. 

Mary had given him some very peculiar sideways glances, but she had known better than to comment on it. 

He had worked from dusk till dawn that day. Only taking small breaks here and there when he felt close to passing out.  
When he crawled back in bed that night his shoulder hurt, his leg was cramping and he could hardly hold his eyes open.  
But when he finally pulled his blankets over himself as his head rested on his pillow and his eyelids drooped shut he was not granted the relief of dreamless sleep and he once again found himself inside of a nightmare. 

Once again his feet followed the buzzing of the flies of their own accord.   
But when he reached the swarm this time it was not just the corpse of master Holmes that he found. It was his own corpse as well. Eyes gone, hair matted with blood and as his gaze drifted down to the pool of blood on the grass beneath them that he now shared with his master he saw that their hands were clasped tightly together. Their fingers intertwined.   
But before he had time to ponder on what it all meant his own corpse shifted suddenly, lifted its head and turned its empty eye-sockets on him and as it did so John noticed his own corpse had a rope pulled tightly around its neck. The corpse proceeded to open its mouth and more blood began oozing out, drenching his chin and shirt and with a voice that resembled the croaking of a magpie a little bit too much it started to speak. The words sounded like a warning: 'Beware the king' it had said.   
And then he had woken up.   
For a moment he had panicked as he felt warm liquid drenching his face and back.   
But a quick swipe of his hand told him it was only sweat. 

************************************************************************************************

On the fourth day John decided to stay inside. He was tired, mentally and physically, and his muscles ached. The previous days and disturbing nights filled with restless sleep having taken their toll.   
This decision, as it turned out, proved to be a good one, because on the fourth day: Finn returned. 

When John saw the dark man enter the stables, his air one of utter calm, poise and collectedness, he first thought he was dreaming.   
But when after rubbing his eyes and pinching his arm the figure of Finn was still standing in the opened doors, hands once again clasped behind his back and another half smile on his face, he was fairly certain this was all real and happening now. 

'Sir' the only thing he managed to say.   
Upon seeing Finn again John wasn't sure how he felt as both hope and dread fought amongst themselves in his chest to gain the upper hand.   
He desperately wanted to know if Holmes was found. If he was alright. But at the same time his dreams of the two previous nights haunted him still. When he closed his eyes he was plagued by visions of a pale eyeless face drenched in blood. Visions he would rather not learn to be true. 

Upon seeing him Finn's smile fell. For a moment John thought that was the only response he would get out of the strange man, but then he spoke:   
'I have found him.' 

John's heart skipped a beat.   
'Is he....alright?' 

'He's alive.' 

At least some of the tension that had held his body in a tight grip over the last days left him, but he needed to know more. 

'Is he hurt?' 

'Yes.'

Another moment of silence. John was about to ask more, but somehow every word he wanted to say got stuck inside his throat and he could not get them out.   
It was Finn who continued: 

'I really hope you're a good doctor.'

John swallowed. 'I'll do what I can.'

Finn's smile returned for a fraction of a moment before it was replaced by a serious expression again.  
'I was hoping you would say that. You're going to have to come with me.' 

John looked around him for a moment. Uncertain. He would go with Finn. There was no doubt in his mind. But going would also mean he would lose his job. He doubted Lady Holmes would take kindly to him just up and going wherever he pleased for who knows how long.   
He wondered how many of his belongings he should take with him. 

'Your father just died', Finn said. Shaking John from his thoughts. 

'I beg your pardon?', John's reply. Thoroughly confused. He was pretty sure he had misheard. 

'Your father', Finn said again, 'he died.'

'My father has been dead for 16 years' John's tone unsure. 

'About time you buried him then', a full smile was now firmly on Finn's face as he produced a piece of paper from within the confines of his riding jacket.   
John gingerly took it.   
It looked pretty official.   
It was a death certificate. For his own father. Dated a couple of days ago. 

'I don't understand....' he started. 

Finn sighed.   
'I'm sure Holmes would not want you to lose your job while you're taking care of him. At least......I don't think he would want that.......he's not really been conscious enough to ask......anyway.......show this to Lady Holmes and she'll feel obligated to give you a week off at least to attend the funeral.  
Plenty of time for you to help me keep the Great Idiot alive.' 

Finn had a smile on his face again. John's head was reeling. 

'This is a fake death certificate?' 

'We're wasting time here, Watson. For gods sake, yes!'   
John wasn't quite sure what to say.   
It was a good plan. A plan that would ensure him of a job when he returned. If he returned.   
Finn reminded him of Holmes. Holmes was alive. John felt himself smiling back. 

'Alright', all he said. 

********************************************************************************************

As it turned out Lady Holmes did not give him one week off, but two. It might have had something to do with John asking her just as she was berating one of her daughters for something. The poor girl sat sobbing in a corner. Her face cast down. Her hands folded in her lap where she was wringing them incessantly.  
Lady Holmes did not have time for John or the trivial matter of his father dying. She gave him the two weeks off he asked her for without even looking at him. She was just glad to be rid of him and John made himself scarce as soon as he could.

After that John had gone to quickly gather some food in the kitchen for the road, Mrs. Hudson had told him he could take whatever he wanted, her eyes filled with tears before she had pulled him into a tight hug. He had hated lying to her. He liked Mrs. Hudson. He always had a feeling she knew more about Master Holmes than she let on and he wished he had had the time to talk to her about what they both knew in honesty.   
But time was not on his side so he had just held her a little bit tighter and had tried to commit the feeling of her small body between his arms, the course fabric of her dress and the color of her gray hair to memory. 

John was just tying up the small packet of provisions he had allowed himself to take, just a bit of bread and cheese for the road, he did not feel comfortable taking anything more, when he heard a familiar voice behind him. 

'John?' 

Mary. 

He waited a moment before turning around.

'John?', her voice was soft and fragile, 'I heard you were leaving.'

This time he did turn around.   
'There's been a death in the family', he said. It hurt to lie. Especially to her. The lie he had told her before still left a bad taste in his mouth. 

'I'm so sorry', She said, 'when will you be back?' 

'I don't know.' That was the truth at least. 

Mary proceeded to wrap her arms around him and as she lifted herself unto the tips of her toes she, once again, pressed her lips to his. The kiss was soft and unhurried and tasted of sadness with a bitter edge.   
John let her kiss him. A lie for a lie, he thought. 

 

**************************************************************************************************

When John returned to the stables Finn was waiting for him. He was sitting astride a beautiful strawberry colored horse with bright yellow manes. He had an impatient look on his face that turned a bit uncertain when he saw John come walking up.

'I hope you can run fast', Finn said. 

John just frowned. 

'I'm not letting...... you, sit on the back of my horse', Finn explained. His tone conveying quite clearly that there was no room for debate on this issue. 

John wasn't quite sure why, but he felt insulted to his very core. He, however, decided to be the better man and simply replied: 'I have my own horse.' 

********************************************************************************************

The mansion grew smaller and smaller as they moved further and further away from it. Finn on his strawberry-golden horse that somehow reminded John of a liquid fire as its sleek muscles stretched and flexed underneath its pristine coat, and John on his gray horse. 

Next to Finn John felt drab and mundane and after a couple more moments of silence, before he was even aware of it, the question that had been plaguing him for the last four days slipped past his lips:

'What are you?'

Finn turned towards John in his saddle, the movement of his body just as smooth and elegant as that of his horse and the smile on his face was now down-right mischievous.  
'Dark Elf', he said. 

'Dark Elf?' 

'We're nocturnal', Finn said as he squinted his eyes in the direction of the sun and gave it a look as if it had personally insulted him and his entire family.   
'We used to be called Night-Elves, but folklore now associates that name with small goblins with wings.'   
A moment of silence before he added softly, his voice oozing disdain, not much more than a mutter to himself: 'I refuse to be associated with tiny goblins with wings......and pointy ears.'

John couldn't help but smile just a bit.   
'And Holmes?' he asked. Pressing his luck. 

'Dark mage.' 

' _Dark_ mage?' 

Finn nodded.  
'Same as a regular mage, but I guess he thought it made him sound more interesting this way. He just made it up.'

'He made up his own profession?' 

Finn nodded again. 

'Sounds like him', John said, not being able to completely suppress the smile forming on his face. From the corner of his eye he saw a similar smile form on Finn's face for just a second. 

'And what...' John started, but it seemed Finn's talkative mood had run it's course as he interrupted him. 

'I'll make you a deal', the Elf said as his eyes bore into John's. There was liquid fire there also, 'come with me, do whatever it is you do and if Holmes lives I'll tell you everything you want to know. Deal?' 

John nodded and cleared his throat.   
'Deal.' 

Finn actually laughed now and the sound reminded John of crackling wood in a fire.  
He did not have long to think about it though, because Finn had spurred on his horse and was quickly making his way towards the horizon. The rising sun shining brilliantly off of his horse's mane and tail as the wind caught them.   
But just as John was about to put his heels to the flanks of his horse as well he was distracted by a familiar sound. For a second he thought he heard a magpie croak behind him accompanied by the buzzing of flies, but when he looked around him there was nothing there.   
And when he turned his gaze towards the horizon again Finn was already far ahead. A small speck at the far end of the road growing ever smaller and smaller.   
John made to follow as fast as he could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading.


	15. The Roads have Ears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finn takes John to Holmes, but what exactly is wrong with him?

Once again Sherlock Holmes found himself surrounded by total darkness.  
He blinked a couple of times – his eyelids opening and closing in rapid succession – but the darkness around him remained.  
Carefully he tapped the surface he was standing on with the toe of his boot.  
He heaved a sigh of relief when he found it firm and unyielding and the sound that drifted back to his ears told him he was standing on some kind of paved stone.  
Next he found himself stretching out his arms to either side of his body. On his left his searching fingers made contact with what appeared to be a wallpapered wall. The material appeared old and oddly familiar and reassuring as he pressed his palm flat against it.  
Both arms still stretched out he now started stepping to his right.  
Carefully, slowly.  
In case the paved floor ended suddenly. He had no intention of plummeting to his death in some unseen hole.....at least.....not before he was able to deduce where he was exactly.  
And as his fingers lost contact with the wall on his left and the fingers of his right hand had not yet found anything solid to touch upon on the other side, for a moment, he felt as if he was floating in inky black water.  
Stealing into his eyes, ears and lungs.  
Robbing him of his sight and air and reducing any sound to nothing but a dull hum.

He took one step, then two, then three....

The flooring remained firm beneath his feet. Serving as an anchor against the illusion of drowning in the dark. 

He took a fourth step....and a fifth....and just halfway through step number six his right hand finally brushed against an opposite wall.  
He found the texture of it the same as the one on his left.  
Thick wallpaper adorned with what seemed like a flower pattern in relief.  
Briefly the colour green flashed through his mind, but Sherlock did not know why or how.  
The space around him was still pitch black.  
It was then that the wallpaper the fingers of his right hand still rested on started to feel damp and slightly warm.  
And as Sherlock retracted his hand the wall started to emit a soft glowing light making the unseen seen.  
The wall was indeed green, he realized.  
It was also starting to ooze blood. His fingers and palm were sticky with it.  
The wall seemed to be alive somehow as a faint throbbing like the beating of a heart could be heard just on the other side of it.  
The wallpaper not inanimate, as it had first appeared, but soft flesh lining the body of a living creature. Torn in several places, made visible as a gentle glow illuminated the hallway he apparently found himself in. 

It looked familiar.  
Sounded familiar. 

He would have put his ear to the wall, listening to the steady pulse that beat reassuringly behind it, if not for the fact that that also meant covering himself in even more blood. 

Sherlock wasn't sure this place really existed.  
But yet, at the same time, it all felt real.  
It felt as real as he was at this moment. It felt like a part of himself. 

Sometimes he wasn't sure if he himself was actually real. 

The word “ghost” drifted through his mind now and it seemed to both calm and frighten him at the same time.  
Surely he wasn't a ghost just yet?  
The steady pulse that beat from beyond the walls told him so.  
The sound seemed to get louder as the light around him seemed to stretch further ahead still.  
He could now see that he found himself in a very long hallway lined with doors.  
All the doors were barred shut.  
At the end of the hallway was a bright, white light.  
Sherlock squinted his eyes, the brightness a bit too dazzling after what had seemed like an eternity in the dark.  
A gentle voice seemed to be coming from the strange light source.  
Sherlock could not make out the exact words it was saying but he immediately felt soothed.  
The voice was like balm on an open wound he didn't even know he had.  
He decided to head towards it. 

*******************************************************************************************

To his utter displeasure John had not been able to get more information out of Finn.  
Every new question he had asked about their destination, Holmes or his current situation had been met with a silence, a haughty blank stare or an evasive answer at best.  
On top of that his shoulder was giving him trouble and riding a horse for hours on end without any pleasant conversation to distract him was not doing him any favours either.  
They ended up just riding on in silence.  
The elf, straight as a statue, staring ahead at the road and John, riding beside him, occasionally rolling his shoulder trying, and failing, to find some relief for his aching joint. 

As the day wore on it only got worse. 

It was another exceptionally warm day for the time of year and with the sky being almost entirely cloudless and the sparse trees that lined the road too few and far too small to offer any form of shade the sun beat down upon them relentlessly.  
John was uncomfortable, in pain, way too hot and beyond annoyed with his travel companion.  
On par with the day's temperature he felt his temper slowly reach boiling point with every silent minute that went by. 

“If you would just at least tell me the extant of his injuries I would be able to form some kind of plan _before_ we get there. Might be a lot more efficient”, he grit out between clenched teeth as his shoulder gave a sudden pang in protest as he rolled it once again.  
He wasn't really expecting a reply so it came as quite a shock when one actually came. 

“I left him unconscious, alone and injured in a locked room. Believe you me, I am not happy about this arrangement either.”

For a moment the only reply John could give to this was a stunned silence as he hazarded a glance to his side. 

Finn was still staring straight ahead at the road as he sat firmly upright on his horse, but his posture was just on the wrong side of tense, his grip on the reins just a bit too tight.  
His eyes were actually cast downwards as he squinted slightly and suddenly John remembered what he had said about the sun earlier that day.  
Small beads of sweat could just be seen forming on his forehead.  
Finn, so it seemed, was just as uncomfortable as John. Maybe even more so.  
It gave him just a small sense of satisfaction and his mood of aggravation lifted slightly. 

“So he's unconscious then?” he asked. His tone a tad more pleasant than it had been moments before.  
Finn still seemed to be just as tense.  
A small drop of sweat now made its way down his cheek and he swatted at it as if it was some irksome insect that had landed on him. 

“The roads have ears”, his only reply. 

Immediately John's mood fell again as he was reminded of a swarm of flies and a magpie. And despite the burning sun he felt a chill run up his body. 

“Will he be safe until we get there?” his tone hushed. 

“I don't know.”

And with that Finn spurred on his horse and they rode on in silence once again. Just slightly faster. 

*********************************************************************************************

It would take them well into the evening to reach their destination.  
As it turned out they had been heading for one of the nearby towns.  
John had been here before maybe once or twice on errands to get building supplies for the mansion and stables or to get something Mrs. Holmes and her daughters needed on short notice.  
He had never been able to stay long and so he was not too familiar with its lay-out.  
He let Finn lead him once more. 

As the sky darkened around them all kinds of light sources were being kindled inside the houses and buildings lining the road as they passed by.  
It would have been a cozy and welcoming sight had they found themselves in different circumstances. 

Eventually they came to a halt at the town's only inn.  
Finn dismounted with ease and John made to follow rather less gracefully.  
He groaned as his leg almost buckled underneath him, no longer used to a day of tense riding, and his shoulder stung anew.  
Finn paid him no mind.  
He just tossed the reins of his horse at the nearby stable-boy who accepted them without a second thought or indeed any sort of reaction.  
No doubt he was used to this kind of treatment from the upper class and John was reminded of the many times he himself had received a similar treatment. 

It took him a moment to realize the boy was looking at him expectantly. 

“Sir?” the boy said. His voice high, giving away his youthful innocence.  
The boy was waiting for him to pass over his reins as well. Seeing him in the company of Finn, riding by his side even, the boy was not taking any chances and had decided to just treat John as nobility as well.  
John handed over the reins silently. His eyes were fixed on Finn.  
He was far too tired to explain anything to the boy and besides, Finn was already moving along, making his way into the inn. 

*************************************************************************************

As it turned out, after finding Holmes god knows where, unconscious and severely injured, Finn had brought him here where there would be a bed and a roof over his head at least.  
He had rented out some rooms for the both of them and had planned on recruiting the local doctor to look after Holmes. 

It had seemed however that here their luck had run out .  
The local doctor was away for an indefinite amount of time. A death in the family apparently.  
John gave a tight smile at the irony of the situation.  
And so Finn had decided John would be his next best option.  
John gave him another tight smile. 

“I don't think I need to remind you that anything you see or hear in this room is strictly confidential and should remain within its walls”, Finn said. His hand on the door that gave access to the rooms he had rented for himself and Holmes.  
The key had already been turned in the lock. 

John said nothing. He decided to give the elf an icy stare instead. He found the lack of trust that lingered even in this moment utterly insulting.  
After a moment of silence where Finn just returned John's gaze, liquid fire once again swimming through his irises, he seemed to have have reached a conclusion.  
And as he nodded he slowly pushed open the door to finally reveal what lay behind.

*************************************************************************************

As the door slowly swung open John still could not make out much. By now night had completely fallen, the curtains were closed and there was no light source in the room.  
Gingerly he stepped inside followed by Finn who closed and locked the door behind them.  
Finn waved his hand through the air nonchalantly and suddenly a couple of candles seemingly lighting themselves sprung to life and filled the room with a warm glow. 

John looked at Finn with something that resembled amazed surprise, but the elf just rolled his eyes and shrugged and John redirected his attention to the contents of the room.  
The room was not very big. There was a large window with heavy red curtains in the wall opposite to the door. A small wooden desk and chair were placed directly underneath the window. On the floor was a thick carpet. Also red. There was a comfortable chair in the far left corner with a small table next to it and on the right side of the room a chamber screen stood folded in the corner leaning against a large dresser.  
John only looked at the contents of the room briefly. His eye was drawn to the large double bed flanked by two nightstands, each had a couple of candles on them, that was situated against the left wall and the figure that lay on it.  
Mr. Holmes was laid out on his back. He still wore his riding clothing, but not his boots or stockings.  
His eyes were closed and he was not moving. His face was too pale.  
For a moment John was transported back to his horrible dream from the night before.  
Mr. Holmes drenched in blood. Gaping holes where his eyes should have been.....

Behind Holmes' closed eyelids John could see the movement of his eyes shooting back and forth, spurred on by whatever dream he found himself in, and John heaved a sigh of relief.  
Slowly he drew closer. The sound of his feet mostly absorbed by the thick carpet that lay underneath still sounding too loud to his ears in the oppressive silence that filled the room.  
The candles on the nightstand flickered as he gingerly set himself down on the right side of the bed beside Holmes. 

His face was even paler up close.  
_He looks like a ghost_ , John thought, but the slow rise and fall of his chest and the raspy sound of his breathing told him Master Holmes was indeed still alive.  
Slowly John stretched out his hand and placed it on Holmes' forehead. He was expecting the pale face to be ice-cold to the touch, but he found quite the opposite to be true.

“He's burning up”, he said. Unable to keep a hint of panic out of his voice. “Does he have any wounds?”  
At first glance the body of Master Holmes seemed to be relatively unmarred this time around. 

“I give you permission to examine him fully”, Finn's evasive reply, “I'm sure he will not fault you for it if it is what is going to save his life.”

John just nodded, not taking his eyes off of Holmes' face and made to remove his Master's jacket and shirt.  
He had done this before. The first time he and Holmes had met had been under similar circumstances. Holmes had not been wounded then, but there had been a lot of blood.  
A brief smile formed on his lips at the memory. It all seemed ages ago now.  
Slowly Holmes' jacket and shirt fell away from his body under John's gentle touch and the pale expanse of his chest was revealed. The skin there was just as pale as his face and John's smile fell as he softly placed his fingers against Holmes' neck in search of a pulse. 

Underneath his fingers a faint, but steady and slow thrumming could be felt and it calmed John's nerves slightly.  
Holmes moaned in his fevered sleep and lifted his right hand slightly.  
“Ssssh, it's alright”, John's voice was not much more than a whisper, barely even audible to himself, but it seemed to calm Holmes back down again as he heaved a sigh and let himself sink back down in the pillows and blankets on the bed. 

With soft touches, manipulating his body and arms gently John searched him for any wounds, but, just as that cold night oh so long ago, none could be found. 

His examination of Holmes' body was not complete however.  
He hazarded an unsure, questioning look over his shoulder to where Finn still stood beside the door.  
Finn just nodded.  
“I told you, you have permission to examine him fully”, he said.  
John nodded in reply.  
There was no going back now. It felt somehow like crossing a line. A point of no return.  
But it was something that needed to be done he told himself. He had done this before with fellow soldiers when he still served as a doctor in the army. Why was this any different?  
It felt different. It didn't feel like anything he'd ever experienced before. 

_Just another patient,_ he thought to himself.  
His hand shook slightly as he reached out for the fastening of Holmes' riding breeches.  
Somehow he was very thankful for Finn's presence in the room. Having him there made the whole situation less personal....less intimate....than if it had been just him and Holmes....in a dimly lit room......on a bed.....with flickering candles the only source of light. 

As if sensing his thoughts Finn coughed politely.

Just for a moment John closed his eyes tightly. Regaining some form of composure. And then proceeded to remove Master Holmes' pants and undergarments. 

********************************************************************************************

Sherlock was walking down the hallway now. The calming voice that spoke words he could not understand coming from the light he was heading towards growing louder and louder.  
He was sure he'd heard this voice before. That it was someone he knew, but couldn't quite remember who. 

He was however pretty certain that this place, this hallway lined with nothing but barred doors, was not a place that existed in the real world. He was strangely thankful for it.  
A place where the walls leaked blood was not something he particularly wished to be real.  
He just needed to find a way out of here and he was pretty sure the voice was the key. 

The voice reminded him of sunlight and warmth.  
He turned his face towards the light, closed his eyes and felt strangely comforted by its warmth. 

There was a strange sensation on the right side of his neck.  
It was as if someone was tickling him there. Gently grazing their fingers over his skin.  
There was no one there.  
Sherlock raised his right hand in order to chase the ghostly touch away. 

_Ssssssh, it's alright_

The first words the calming voice spoke that Sherlock could actually understand.  
The voice was right.  
It would all be alright.  
As long as he kept moving towards it.  
Sherlock started walking again. Making his way towards the light once more.  
It still seemed impossibly far away. 

But now at least he could make out some of the words it was saying. 

“Patience” he heard (or was it _patient_?)

The voice was right again. He needed to be patient.  
If he just kept moving forward he'd find his way out of this place.  
Whatever this place was. He'd find the source of that voice and all would be fine. 

And so Sherlock kept walking forward. His nerves calmed by the warm light, the somehow familiar voice and the steady pulse that still beat from beyond the walls. 

He felt not quite like himself, but somehow at ease, his defenses lowered, still trying to make sense of the strange situation he found himself in and so he did not notice another sound that was coming from the darkness behind him.  
The sound of feet on the paved stones at his back. Keeping their distance, but never falling too far behind.  
Following him wherever he went.


	16. Quenching a fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John takes care of Holmes.

Master Holmes' skin, stretched across his slender yet muscular frame, was soft underneath John's fingertips. It's complexion surprisingly pale and yet hot to the touch. As if his master was burning up from the inside out. So far not even a single scratch or mark could be found.

John looked over his shoulder to where Finn was standing. Not sure how to phrase what he wanted to ask but the elf seemed to understand him nonetheless.  
Together they carefully rolled Master Holmes over on his side so John could examine the rest of him. Holmes remained unresponsive and neither Finn or John spoke a word.  
John didn't know what to say anyway.  
All around him candles flickered reassuringly but he still felt ill at ease.  
The more he examined Holmes the more he became convinced that the condition that ailed his master at the moment was not something he was able to handle.  
If Holmes was under some sort of spell or enchantment there was very little he could do. 

Once again he looked over his shoulder to Finn.  
The serious look he bore on his face as he stood leaned against the wall made all the more haunting by the flickering candles causing the shadows under his eyes and around the corners of his mouth to dance. 

“Well? Anything?” Finn asked. 

John swallowed and shook his head. Again unsure what to say as he let his gaze drift back to Holmes. Now that the main part of the examination was over he was doing his very best to keep his line of sight above the waist. Focusing on Holmes' back and shoulders. But he found he was having a hard time not letting his eyes wander.  
The man was like one of those ancient statues. Nothing but perfect lines and curves. Not an inch of fat on him and muscles only where it mattered. The effect only enhanced by the pale, almost marble-like complexion of his skin. 

“I....” he said. Starting a sentence he had no idea how to finish as the supple curve of Holmes backside lay right before him.  
He swallowed again.  
And then leaned in a little closer as he squinted his eyes. 

“He has a very strange birthmark”, he said and immediately bit his tongue at the inappropriateness of the comment. 

But he seemed to have caught Finn's attention as he felt the elf lean over his shoulder to take a look at the strange marking on Holmes' backside as well. 

“That wasn't there before”, Finn said. Tone deadly serious. 

All John could do was look at him in disbelief. Wondering what the connection between Finn and Holmes actually was. Apparently the elf had a rather intimate knowledge of his masters body.  
Somewhere inside him something akin to jealousy stirred. He quickly put a halt to those feelings. He had no right. What even was he to Holmes anyway....

Apparently something had still been clearly visibly on his face because Finn sighed and rolled his eyes in a way that reminded him very much of Holmes and once again something very like jealousy roused inside of him. 

“Holmes and I are......colleagues”, Finn said. A small hint of exasperation to his voice, “we have been for a _very_ long time. The fact that I know this man intimately doesn't mean that I know him _initimately_.”

John felt his cheeks turning red and he quickly turned his face away but doing so brought him face to face with Holmes' backside again only aggravating his current embarrassment.

Finn laughed. An odd sound in the dark and quiet room where, up until this point the atmosphere had been tense and oppressing. For a moment the candles seemed to burn a little bit brighter, but it was over and gone before John could figure out whether he had imagined it all. 

“I'm way out of his league anyway”, Finn continued. This time John couldn't help but laugh as well.  
“What do you think that is?” 

“It's a magpie”, John said. The words having found their way past his lips before he could stop himself.

Finn squinted and leaned in even closer.  
“A magpie? It's a birthmark in the shape of a bird. Could be any bird. How are you so sure it's a magpie?”

John coughed and got up. Finn was too close. Holmes was too close. He needed space. He needed to think. Of course it wasn't a magpie. It could be any bird. Finn was absolutely right. Just because he was having strange dreams and visions didn't mean it was all connected. 

“What does this mean?” he asked instead of explaining himself, “is he under some sort of spell? Is this a curse?”

For a moment Finn said nothing and John was afraid he would ask him about the magpie again. That he would ask him questions he was not sure he knew the answers to. He wasn't even entirely sure yet he could trust Finn. Not completely anyway.  
But then Finn sat down on the bed and gently rolled Holmes over so that he was lying on his back once again.  
John did his very best to not let his eyes stray to the patch of dark curls that surrounded Holmes' member.  
He was doing a very poor job of it. 

“It's some kind of spell for sure”, at the sound of Finn's voice John flinched. A part of him had not expected the elf to keep on talking. He had been so quiet and unforthcoming up to this point. “But it's not what's keeping him unconscious. All the magic has gone out of it at this point. It's more like a message.....someone is trying to tell us something.......but I don't know who. We have to wake Holmes up. I need to know where exactly he's been.”

The elf's eyes were directed at John as he spoke and once again John could see something like liquid fire swim through his irises and as the candlelight reflected off of his dark hair it seemed to become one with the darkness in the room around him where he stood he. It all reminded John of smoldering coals in a fire. He wondered how powerful Finn actually was when it came to magic. He had not needed more than the raise of a hand to light the candles when they entered. What else was he capable of? 

“We need to cool him down. He's burning up”, John said as he placed his hand on Holmes' forehead. A fine layer of sweat had formed all over his body but even the liquid was warm to the touch. Like lava, John thought. A fine complement to Finn's ember eyes. 

Finn Just nodded but did not reply so John continued speaking. Glad to have finally touched on familiar territory for once.  
Fevers he knew well. He had encountered many during his time in the army. If a body got too warm other functions seemed to shut down. Men had trouble moving, speaking or thinking in their fevered haze. Once the temperature dropped they seemed to improve. Some of them anyway. There were always those that were too far gone. That slipped further and further away until the fever reached it's peak, their bodies went limp and quiet and their temperature dropped once more and their eyes stared ahead unblinking. Never to see again. 

Gently he took up one of the sheets from the bed and used it to wipe at least some of the sweat from Holmes' brow and cheeks. 

“I'm sure they have a bath here that we can use”, he said as he dabbed at the hollow between Holmes' neck and chest where a significant amount of sweat had gathered. Underneath his fingertips Holmes swallowed. Not entirely unresponsive then.  
There was still hope.  
“We need a bath to put him in”, he said again, “filled with lukewarm water. If the water is too cold the difference between the water and his body temperature will be too great. We'll send him into shock and he might still die.”

He waited for Finn to answer as he once again moved the sheet over Holmes' face. His eyes were closed but John could still see movement behind the closed lids. Any sign of life was a good thing at this point. 

No answer came from Finn however and when he looked up to see why he found that Finn had already left the room. 

 

*****************************************

As it turned out Finn was a man of action. He had gone to find a bath and had succeeded rather quickly, because within 5 minutes he was back. A big metal bath and several pitchers of water in the hallway behind him.  
John had helped him pull the bath in the room and together they had filled it up with water that was indeed lukewarm as John had requested. 

At the moment they found themselves trying to hoist Holmes up from the bed and into the cooling water.  
Holmes' left arm was slung around John's shoulders, his right around Finn and they both had an arm draped around his waist.  
Once again John found his fingers touching upon his masters naked flesh and he was reminded of that dark and stormy night where they had first met.  
Only this time the body underneath his hands was positively on fire and the situation much more dire. 

Finn groaned.  
“Ugh....must he be so warm all over.....it's like I'm carrying a furnace......and he's sticky.....”

John wanted to reply but Holmes chose this exact moment to regain some form of consciousness.  
His eyes fluttered open for a second and with a raspy voice he said:  
“I don't think I can make it up the stairs.......you'll have to carry me....”

Finn just groaned again.  
“There are no more stairs, you git. I already hoisted your arse up several of them yesterday.”

But Holmes' eyes were drooping shut again as his head hung low between his shoulders and he lost consciousness once more. The last thing he said before drifting off again a faint: “John.”

Finn looked at John from underneath Holmes' armpit.  
“Care to divulge on that, Watson?”

John just shook his head. 

“Thought so”, Finn's reply.

Sure there were no stairs here, but the last time he had carried Holmes in a similar fashion there most decidedly had been. He had carried Holmes up the stairs to his small bedroom that night. At the time he had assumed his master had been unconscious for all of it. Now he wondered how much of it he actually remembered.  
Once again he felt his cheeks turn red. He silently hoped Finn would chalk it up to the effort of holding Holmes upright. 

He heaved a sigh of relief when they finally reached the bath. Getting Holmes into the bath turned out easier than he had feared it would be. Gravity being on their side this time. In the end only a small amount of water ended up sloshing over the sides and ending up on the floor. 

Finn sat himself down on the bed as John crouched down beside the bath and carefully scooped up water in his hands and let it trickle down Holmes' head and neck in an attempt to douse the fire that was currently laying waste to his mind. 

It seemed to be working because Holmes opened his eyes once more.  
But as he looked at John the blue of his eyes was murky and he had a far off stare. He was not out of the woods yet, but there was improvement.  
As he opened his eyes he first looked at John, then the room around him, the bath, then Finn, then John again and his eyes went wide with shock. 

“Watson....”, his voice was soft, but the panic that clung to his words was loud and clear, “you're not supposed to be here. You can't be here.”

He made and attempt to get up out of the water, but his legs would not obey him and he only manged to slump further down in the bath. He coughed and shivered as some of the water sloshed up and made it past his lips. 

“He saved your life.” Finn's voice clear and loud in the dark room. 

“He has to go.”

“He stays.”

John felt as if he had spent this entire evening lost for words. What was he even still doing here if Holmes so very clearly didn't want him here. He felt awkward and out of place. The situation only made worse by his masters lack of clothing and the intimate feel of the dark room with it's flickering candles.  
He thought about leaving. If Finn was able to keep Holmes' temperature down he had a very good shot at making a full recovery. The fact that he was already regaining consciousness was a good sign. But the more he thought about leaving the more every fiber in his body seemed to protest this idea.  
It felt wrong to leave. Very wrong.  
He could not explain it entirely but he was certain his place was here. Beside Holmes. Whether the man wanted him here or not. He felt protective of Holmes. He felt.....  
He wasn't sure what he felt.  
But he would not be sent away that easily.  
He was just about to tell Holmes so but when he looked up again Holmes had once again slipped into unconsciousness.  
This time, however, his breathing was nice and even, the look on his face gentle and calm and when John laid a hand on his forehead the burning fire that had been there before seemed to have been quenched.  
He heaved a sigh of relief. 

“You're staying.” Finn said again. 

John just nodded.  
He was fine with staying. 

“I'll help you get him back into bed and then I'm leaving”, Finn continued speaking. 

“Wait..... _you're_ leaving?”

“I need to find out if there are any clues to be found where I found him.”

“Which is.....where?” John felt like pressing his luck just a small bit. After all, Finn had promised him information if he came with him. 

But instead of answering Finn just smiled as embers lit up in his eyes once more.  
“All in due time, Watson.”

John opened his mouth, about to protest, but Finn raised his hand, effectively shushing him, and so he closed his lips again and waited for the elf to further explain himself. 

“I know what I promised”, he said, “and I will keep my promise. I'm a dark elf. We always keep our word.”

“You're the only dark elf I know. I have no way of knowing if that's even remotely true.”  
Finn smiled again.  
“I like you, Watson.”

John did not reply.

“Look”, Finn continued, “if I tell you all I know I'm pretty sure that Holmes here will want to be conscious for it. I think he'll have a thing or two to say himself. So stay here. Keep his temperature down......keep him alive.....and I will be back in one or two days at the most. Okay?”

John looked around him. Slightly unsure. There was only one bed in the room and the room was rather small. If Holmes really didn't want him here perhaps he should get another room for himself to sleep in. But he hadn't brought any money. And even if he had...he probably would not be able to afford an extra room.

“He'll be glad to have you here. Trust me.” the sound of Finn's voice woke John from his contemplations.

He nodded. Avoiding Finn's eyes. 

“He has a strange way of showing he cares. I've known him for years now. I know what he's like. Just...stay...with him.......in this room............look after him and I will return as soon as I can and I give you my word that, once he's fully conscious, we'll tell you all.”

“I've got your word as a dark elf?”

Finn snickered.  
“Worth more than diamonds, Watson.”

Together they hoisted Holmes out of the bath and back in the bed. He did not regain consciousness again, but the fever had definitely broken as goosebumps formed on his skin as he got out of the water and the air of the room took the heat that still remained in him with it. 

Carefully they laid him down in bed and John covered him with a sheet. All of a sudden the nakedness of Holmes seemed more than he could bear. 

Finn closed the door behind him and all of a sudden John felt more tired than he had been in ages. The bed Holmes was laying in was large and inviting and Holmes was only using less than half of it at the moment. Carefully John laid himself down on the edge furthest away from Holmes. He just needed to catch his breath for a couple of minutes. His shoulder was killing him. He'd move to the chair in the corner of the room in a moment and sleep there the rest of the night. He'd get up in just a moment. John yawned. His eyes drooped shut and within seconds he was fast asleep. And this time around no dreams came to haunt him. 

**********************  
It was past midnight. Finn sat in a field by a bonfire.  
It was barely burning. He didn't like the heat but he needed the light of an open flame to get the spell working right.  
Whenever he traveled with Holmes he always made sure to stoke the fire up extra high though.  
The man was always cold.  
Had been for as long as he could remember. Maybe that's part of the reason he had taken him under his wing all those years ago. Being a dark elf he had been naturally attracted to cold. Like a moth to a flame. If the flame was made of ice. How ironic was it that he was so exceptionally good at fire magic.  
He lowered his hands in an attempt to get the fire to burn even lower without going out completely. The cold night air was at his back and he could not wait to get up and lose himself in it.  
He could still feel the all consuming heat of Holmes' flesh underneath his fingertips. It had scared him more than he was willing to admit.  
Luckily he had had Watson with him. Watson had known what to do.  
Cool him down.  
Of course.  
Obvious in hindsight. 

And then Holmes had woken up, however briefly, and had tried to send Watson away again.  
The idiot.  
He wouldn't know what was good for him if it was staring him right in the face.  
Finn knew why Holmes had said it though.  
Bloody martyr.  
Holmes looked at Watson as if he was the sun and, unlike Finn, Holmes wanted to get warm again. There was just a part of him that felt like he didn't deserve happiness. Or that he was some kind of danger to the people he cared about.  
Idiot.  
Whatever had happened to Mycroft it had not been his fault. However much he blamed himself for it. 

Mycroft.

Finn sighed and tried to quell the fire just a small bit more. Some of the embers fizzled and died and he cursed as he raised his hands once more and the warmth of a newly kindled fire hit his skin. 

Holmes never really liked to talk about the past.  
It didn't matter.  
He didn't really blame him. There was a lot of misery and death along the path of recollection.

Behind him the mist rose from the ground and then parted.  
Bloody finally.  
Carefully he got up and walked towards it. His eyes closing as a contented smile formed on his lips when the coolness of the floating water droplets hit his face. 

Familiar territory. 

Behind him the moon appeared from behind the clouds shrouding everything in an ethereal light. 

He would do his best to figure out what was going on. Who exactly had it in for Holmes. Keep him safe.  
He had made a promise after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. This has been on hiatus forever. It will get updates from time to time. I cannot, however, promise they will be regular updates. I do my best. 
> 
> Many thanks to anyone who is still reading this.  
> You are amazing.


	17. A light in the darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both Sherlock and Finn have things to think about in the dark of the night.

The moon shines through a crack in the curtains illuminating the half of the bed on which John Watson is currently sleeping.  
His breaths flow in a steady pattern between his slightly parted lips as his chest gently rises and falls.  
Sherlock is silently watching him.  
He finds himself lost in the rhythm.  
In his travels he has seen many things. Mysterious and wonderful things. But none of these have ever left him feeling quite so in awe as the sight of John Watson asleep bathed in moonlight. 

Due to current events his mind is still hazy and his memory shaky at best and so he cannot remember why John is here.  
He isn't really sure he even knows where _here_ is exactly for that matter. 

When he had finally been able to open his eyes after what had seemed like an eternity of fragmented darkness the unfamiliar room had just added to his confusion.  
He had made several feeble attempts to get himself upright and standing but he had soon realized he had still been too weak.  
He had let out an aggravated groan as he let himself sink back into the bed.  
And then someone had stirred next to him. And he had recognized him immediately. John's messy blond hair softly glowing in the moonlight like a halo. Softly sighing as Sherlock's tossing and turning reached him in his sleep but was not quite enough to wake him up. 

Sherlock had been frozen in place. 

At first he had been convinced he was still not awake. Still locked away in the nightmare version of his mind palace he had retreated into when he found his strength dwindling in a desperate attempt to retain at least a small bit of his sanity. 

Of course: there was a version of John in his mind palace. This sleeping, angelic version haloed by moonlight seemed to fit in perfectly. A version of John to calm Sherlock's racing mind. He had pinched himself and had rubbed his eyes until he had seen stars.  
It hurt.  
He was definitely not asleep anymore.  
John remained at his side. 

This was real.  
And John was here. 

Once again he tried to remember what had happened but his memories were hazy and all out of order. Memories overlapped and interwove creating a cacophony of sights and sounds that stung his ears and eyes. 

The last thing he did remember was pain as his magic drained from him. He remembered falling to the ground. He remembered closing his eyes. Retreating into his mind palace and locking all the doors. Barring the windows and turning down all the lights.  
He remembered a vague feeling of not being alone and then.....nothing.....until he had woken up again in the dark. Blood oozing from the walls. A heartbeat that told him he was, for the moment at least, still alive and a voice that had guided him back to the world of the living.  
He looked over at John again. He looked so peaceful.  
He should send him away.  
He would send him away.  
But not right now. 

Right now Sherlock's mind is still weak and so he indulges himself and looks just a little while longer as John's chest continues rising and falling like the coming and going of the tide. 

Tranquil.

Peaceful.

Sherlock feels his eyelids drooping.  
He is still so tired. 

He turns himself on his side facing John, his head resting on his arm, and looks his fill.  
If John suddenly does wake up he will just close his eyes and pretend he is still unconscious. He is good at pretending. 

He has never had this much trouble with sentiment before. 

_“Don't get attached”_.  
It's what Mycroft had said to him.  
Don't get attached and you won't get hurt. 

_”People like us are destined to lead a lonely life, Sherlock”_

_”But we have each other? Right, Mycroft?”_  
He had been twelve and he had been young and naive.  
Where he had hoped that the revelation of them both belonging to a family of mages would bring them closer together it had eventually ended up tearing them apart. 

There were a lot of times after...... _after_.......where he had lain awake wondering whether Mycroft had known all along what was going to happen to him.....in the end.  
If that was why he had warned Sherlock against attachment.  
Attachment was a dangerous thing.  
Without it there was nothing you could lose.  
With it you found yourself anchored. Stuck in place. But once the bond broke, vulnerable and left adrift and completely at the mercy of the tides. 

Attachment always ended in suffering. 

People got hurt. People disappeared. People died. 

He looked at John again. The curve of his nose. His lips.  
Suffering had never before felt so good. 

In the hushed silence of the dark bedroom he sighed. A cloud drifted in front of the moon but John's skin did not lose any of its ethereal glow. 

He should send John away. 

Being around Sherlock was dangerous. 

If anything were to happen to John.....

He could not bring himself to finish that thought. 

He had been cold for so long and John had been the first person in years to bring some warmth back into his life. If he were to lose that now.....  
The cold would take over his heart, break it beyond repair and, eventually, kill him too.  
He would not be able to bear it.  
He had been the cause of too much suffering already. 

He looked over at John again.  
The moon was still hidden behind a blanket of clouds. The room would have been too dark to see anything had it not been for the fact that John was still emitting a steady glow. 

Sherlock pinched himself again.  
It still hurt.  
He was still awake. 

The air around him tingled. The room felt charged. It was the same feeling you got when a thunderstorm was about to break loose. Lightning charging up.  
Magic. 

Slowly he lifted his hand.  
He concentrated.  
Wracking his brain for a spell. Any spell.  
He muttered some words. Mostly because that was how he usually tried to do it but with so much magic in the air the words probably were not entirely necessary at the moment. 

A flame sprang to life in the palm of his hand. 

It was bright and warm, unwavering and full of life. 

John sighed in his sleep. 

Sherlock exhaled. 

“Well, I'll be damned”, he said. 

**********************************

Finn found himself amidst a complete carnage. There were corpses around him everywhere. There were imps, mavros, necromancers and even dire wolves.  
It seemed that Sherlock had not gone down without a fight. 

It all reeked of ambush.

These were not creatures that consorted with each other willingly. Someone....or something, had banded them together and had sent them after Sherlock.

They were all lowly magical creatures. Creatures held at bay easily if you wore the right protection.  
Which Sherlock usually did. Until he hadn't.  
Until he had given his medallion away.  
Someone had known and had passed on the information to whoever wanted to hurt Sherlock. 

To Morgana?

It could be Morgana. 

Or maybe not. 

It didn't really seem to fit her style. She usually liked to play with Sherlock personally. She hardly ever sent her “minions” out.  
She was far too vain for that sort of thing.  
She also very much liked to have Sherlock alive.  
Finn had told Sherlock on several occasions that he was afraid Morgana was far too invested in him.  
She wasn't exactly “in love” with him. She couldn't be.  
Creatures like her had no concept of what love was. Maybe the opposite of it then.  
Maybe she hated him most above all else?  
No...the opposite of love wasn't hate.  
It was something far more dangerous.  
He couldn't quite put his finger on it. 

What concerned him more was that there was apparently someone in Sherlock's household who could not be trusted. A mole. A snitch. Someone gathering information about Sherlock that would benefit the enemy and had a way to pass it on.  
Watson was the first person that came to mind.  
But, no.....it would not be him.  
It did not seem to fit.  
The first time he had met Watson he had taken a long time just observing him. Weaving spells behind his back to make the unseen seen and expose any treachery and untruths.  
There had been nothing.  
Watson had been true and honest.  
Of course....a truly powerful magic user could circumvent his spells easily but.....nothing about Watson even so much as whispered magic. Not in the slightest.  
Watson was a pragmatic man. A soldier. A doctor. And loyal to a fault. He cared for Holmes. That much he was certain of and Holmes himself, although he would never admit it, believed the man was the bloody sun and moon and all the stars combined. 

Sentiment. 

Sentiment was dangerous. 

Wasn't that what Mycroft always said? 

He had known Mycroft for years before he even met Sherlock.  
Of course, Sherlock didn't know about this. Couldn't know.  
It would complicate things.  
He remembered the first time he had ever laid eyes on Sherlock.  
Sherlock had been just a boy then. It had been a warm summer afternoon and he had been outside in the garden.  
He had not been playing. He was supposed to be practicing his magic.  
He wasn't doing that either.  
He was sulking. His back pressed against a tree as he sat on the grass with a dark look on his face. A look far too mature for a boy as young as he. 

Finn and Mycroft had been standing a little further on the grass. A spell hiding them from Sherlock's eyes and ears. At that point he had still been too inexperienced to see through it. 

“I worry about him”, Mycroft had said, “constantly.” 

“I know”, Finn had replied. They had had this conversation before. 

“He's being forced to grow up so fast.”

“He has you, doesn't he?”

Mycroft's expression remained one of worry. A hint of sadness creeping in at the edges turning the spell a shade of blue. Finn felt like putting his arm around him but decided against it. Such a gesture would most likely not be appreciated at this moment. All he could do was put some more magic of his own into the spell as he turned it bright yellow. 

Mycroft smiled. It was brief, fleeting and thin and it never reached his eyes. 

“What if something happens to me”, Mycroft said. 

“Myc...”

“Mycroft is my name. You know I hate to be called “Myc””

“You call me Finn.”

The smile was a bit more genuine now.  
“If I were to call you by your full name we'd still be here tomorrow.”

“I'm not opposed to that.”

Mycroft's smile had widened and Finn had answered it with one of his own. This time he had put his arm around Mycroft as the spell turned brighter yellow still. Like sunlight. 

Mycroft actually chuckled now.  
“You'll need to turn it down just a bit, Finn. Sherlock will see if it's this bright.”

Begrudgingly he had woven in a bit more blue as the bright moment between them passed. 

“Will you promise me one thing?” Mycroft had said. 

“Of course.” In hindsight he had perhaps agreed a bit too quickly and willingly to the request. 

“Look after him if something happens to me.”

“Mycroft....”

“Please.”

“Of course I will.”

They had stood like that for a little while longer. Sherlock had remained seated against the tree. He had never looked up. Never gotten up. And never practiced his spells. 

Finn shakes his head.  
The mangled corpses around him a stark contrast to the memory of a sunny afternoon.  
He needs to get back. There are no more clues to find for him here and thinking of Morgana and Sherlock....and Mycroft.... is not a smart thing to do in these lands where she holds so much power.

Gingerly he pushes one of the corpses out of the way with the toe of his boot.  
Its head separates from its body and rolls down the gentle slope of the ground beneath his feet. 

Suddenly he feels cold.  
His breath forms puffy clouds in front of him as he exhales and there's a rumble like the moving of glaciers at his back.  
Slowly he turns around.  
The sight of a Pagosteras greets him. The creature is enormous. It's been a while since he's seen one this big. Its body completely made out of ice as it slowly makes its way towards him. He feels his eyebrows freeze and the cold stings his eyes and lungs as it creeps its way into his body with every step the creature takes.  
He clenches and opens his hands a couple of times to bring the flow of blood back to his fingers.  
The spell he utters hangs like a physical force in the frozen air in front of him until it lights up the sky like fireworks and flames form in his hands.  
A smile is on his face as his eyes shine with barely contained power.  
Slowly and confidently he raises his hand.  
“What good fortune”, he thinks to himself, “I felt like killing something today.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seems like I am back on this train.  
> Once agian: thank you all for reading.  
> It means the world to me. 
> 
> (ps: sorry for the shorter chapter. It just reached its natural end in fewer words than I was expecting).

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this story idea in my head for ages so I decided to finally write it down.  
> I'm just hoping people will at least enjoy my endeavors in the world of writing a little bit.  
> Comments are _always_ appreciated  
>  Also: come say hi to me on Tumblr: http://vanimelda4.tumblr.com


End file.
